Citizen

 

 

At sixty-six, I had gotten very used to my life.

Not in a bad way. In a relieved way.

My husband Marc and I had a good life. A middle-class life. Predictable, routine, sometimes even boring, which at this age I had come to appreciate more than I ever did when I was younger. Coffee in the morning. Meals at regular times. Bills paid, more or less. A house that felt lived in. A husband who is kind, steady, and regimented in ways that used to amuse me and now mostly comfort me.

Marc is seventy-three. He likes order. He likes things where they belong. He folds towels neatly, keeps track of what needs doing, fills the car with gas before it becomes urgent, and notices when I’m worried even before I say anything. There is something deeply loving in the way he moves through daily life. Not flashy love. Dependable love. The kind that makes a life feel held together.

And I was happy.

Or maybe content is the better word.

Either way, I wasn’t looking for upheaval.

But little by little, the television stopped feeling like something I watched and started feeling like something that was creeping into the room with us.

At first it still seemed far away. Awful, yes, but far away. Another family detained. Another cruel policy. Another story about leaders so openly corrupt it was almost surreal. They didn’t even seem interested in hiding that they did not care about ordinary American people. Not seniors. Not children. Not working families. Not anyone outside their own circle of power and greed.

Then things started landing closer to home.

Was Social Security under threat?

Was Medicare?

Marc and I are not destitute, but we are not wealthy either. We are people who have worked, planned, worried, adjusted, and tried to do the right things. We are people who feel it when groceries jump. And groceries had not just jumped, they had practically doubled. Without ever making some formal decision about it, we found ourselves eating two meals a day instead of three.

Not because we wanted to.

Because that’s what made sense.

That’s what people do when life gets more expensive and no one in power seems remotely interested in how ordinary people are supposed to live.

And then there were the families.

Families who had been in this country a long time. Families who had committed no crimes. Families who worked, paid taxes, raised children, took care of elders, built lives here. And I was seeing them ripped apart with no due process, no fairness, no humanity. Just taken apart like they were paperwork, not people.

That got to me deeply.

But what pushed me over some internal edge was when two American citizens were killed while exercising their First Amendment right to protest.

That chilled me to my core.

I remember sitting there with my hands in my lap, looking at the television, and feeling something shift in me. It wasn’t just anger. It was something heavier. The realization that if I kept watching all this and doing nothing, then I was participating in a way I didn’t want to admit.

Not because I agreed with any of it.

But because there comes a point when staying home and staying silent starts to feel too close to complacency.

I told Marc I thought I should go to a No Kings rally.

Even saying it made me nervous.

I was scared. I told him so. I said I was too old for this kind of uncertainty. Too old to put myself in harm’s way. Too aware of how hateful some people are. Too aware that even people with legal authority can hurt groups of people and call it law and order. I was scared of violence. I was scared of chaos. I was scared of doing something that felt bigger than the small, careful life we had built.

Marc listened.

That is one of the reasons I love him. He never rushes to talk me out of my own feelings.

He said my fear made perfect sense.

Then he told me that for him, there really wasn’t a choice.

He said he could not think about his Jewish relatives only a few generations back, people who knew firsthand what it meant when governments started sorting people into categories of worth and threat, and imagine telling them he had stayed home because he was afraid or uncomfortable. He said he could not look past family in the eye, even figuratively, and say that he had watched a would-be authoritarian leadership rise and had chosen not to rise against it himself.

Not at seventy-three.

Not now.

And hearing him say that reminded me so clearly why I fell in love with him.

Not because he is dramatic. He is not.

Because when it matters, he is passionate about doing the right thing.

That night I lay in bed thinking about all of it, and my mind went back to my childhood.

I remembered being about twelve years old in 1972, sitting in my grandmother’s living room. My mother and grandmother did not usually get along. They could argue about almost anything. But one thing they absolutely had in common was a belief in fighting for civil rights and women’s rights, and in fighting for a full and free life.

My grandmother was seventy-four then. She told me how important it was to fight for the right to live fully and freely. She told me a story from when she herself was a child, about twelve years old, living in New York. Her mother took her to the New York City suffrage rally in Union Square on May 21, 1910. More than ten thousand people gathered to demand the right to vote. Even as a child listening to that story decades later, I could feel the importance of it.

My mother would then jump in and talk about the many times she had protested for women’s rights. She often said, “The personal is political.”

I didn’t fully understand that phrase when I was young, at least not the way I do now. But I do remember how embarrassed I used to be when my mother took me to protests. I thought it was silly. Mortifying, really. All those adults carrying signs and chanting and caring so much in public. I wanted no part of it. I wanted normalcy. I wanted to blend in.

And now here I was, all these years later, understanding those women in a way I never could then.

Understanding that they were trying to hand me something.

The next morning I told Marc I would go.

On the day of the rally, I was nervous from the moment I woke up. I got dressed simply. Comfortable shoes. Light blouse. Sunscreen. Sunglasses. I made a sign, didn’t like it, made another, and in the end chose the plainest one.

NO KINGS.

That was enough.

On the walk there, I was alert in that unpleasant way fear makes you alert. I noticed every overpass, every parked truck, every person who seemed a little too still. I hated that this was part of the calculation now. I hated that going to a peaceful protest required wondering whether you might get hurt.

But when we arrived, what I saw first was not danger.

It was people.

So many people.

Older people, younger people, couples, families, veterans, teachers, people in wheelchairs, people with handmade signs, people handing out water, people helping each other find shade. I saw a lot of gray hair, which comforted me more than I can say. I also saw very young people, and what moved me was the feeling that we were all there for the same reason. Not because we were the same in every way, but because we understood the moment.

I held tightly to Marc’s hand.

And then something happened that surprised me.

I felt more alive than I had in years.

We sang. We made friends. We laughed. And it wasn’t light, empty laughter. It was the kind of laughter people share when they are relieved not to feel alone. I remember feeling a kind of mutual respect between the older people and the very young. We were not invisible to them. And they were not naive to us. We all understood that we were there because we cared what kind of country this is and what kind of country it becomes.

At one point, a young person thanked us for being there, and that touched me deeply. It made me realize that age was not disqualifying me from this moment. In some ways, it was part of why I belonged there.

As I stood there, I thought about my grandmother. I thought about my mother. I thought about all the times I had once found women like them inconvenient or embarrassing because they cared so visibly and so publicly. And I realized that what I had mistaken for fussiness or overreaction when I was young was actually moral courage.

By the end of the rally, I was tired, sun-warm, thirsty, and clearer inside than I had been in a very long time.

On the way home, Marc asked me how I felt.

And I said, “More like myself than I have in years.”

That was the truth.

Nothing was fixed, of course. The corruption had not disappeared. The cruelty had not evaporated. Our groceries would still cost too much. Social Security and Medicare were still not things I felt I could take for granted. Families would still be afraid. The country was still in trouble.

But something had changed in me.

The distance between screens and streets had closed.

And once that happened, I could no longer pretend that watching was enough.

I had stepped into the larger human story that the women before me had tried to teach me about all along.

And strange as it may sound, standing there with my husband among all those people, I did not just feel politically engaged.

I felt deeply, personally alive.

 

FOUR HOURS TO THE GATE

 

FOUR HOURS TO THE GATE

The rain had turned the tarmac into a greasy mirror. At LAX, the line for security stretched past the terminal’s glass doors, a slow-moving mass of wet jackets, carry-ons, and tired faces. Every few minutes the overhead announcements crackled through the terminal, muffled by the weather and the noise of people already running late.

Officer Marco Ruiz stood at his station and tried not to think about rent.

His TSA badge sat on his chest like it still meant something solid. Once, it had. Now it mostly meant he was still employed, still standing, still one of the people expected to hold the line while the people above him argued over budgets and deadlines and left the rest of them to absorb the fallout.

For weeks, his paycheck had been delayed in the Homeland Security funding deadlock. The bills had not been delayed. His landlord certainly had not delayed anything. Marco had started selling off pieces of his mother’s jewelry online, one careful photo at a time. A pair of silver earrings. A gold wedding band. A pearl necklace she used to wear to church with her navy dress. The money came in uneven drips, never enough to do more than push the panic back a few feet.

He was good at rules. Good at routine. Good at repeating the same motions until they became muscle memory. Belt. Shoes. Laptop out. Step forward. Hold still. Next. He had built a life on doing things the right way, even when the right way felt cold.

That morning, nothing felt orderly.

The line kept swelling. A supervisor down the checkpoint was on the phone, jaw tight, eyes flat. A wall monitor showed the damage in blunt language: Officer Shortage: 34% | Projected Delays: 2–4 Hours.

People were muttering now, the way crowds do when inconvenience starts turning personal.

That was when Marco saw them.

A woman in her fifties, soaked at the shoulders, was pushing an airport wheelchair while dragging a suitcase behind her. In the chair sat a young man in his twenties, big enough that she had to lean into every turn. His foot tapped rapidly against the metal bar below the seat. His hands were working the edge of his sweatshirt sleeves, twisting the fabric hard enough to stretch it. He wore a medical bracelet.

The woman kept glancing from the line to the clock to her son and back again, like she was trying to manage four emergencies with two hands.

Marco checked the time on the monitor above the lane. Their flight was boarding in nine minutes.

As they got closer, the young man’s breathing changed. Marco had seen that before. The tightening jaw. The eyes dropping to the floor. The shoulders drawing up. The noise of the checkpoint, the bins banging, children crying, officers calling instructions, all of it was starting to close in on him.

When they reached the scanner, the woman bent down quickly.

“Daniel, honey, just a little more. We’re almost there.”

Daniel shook his head hard. “No. No, no, no.”

The woman looked up at Marco. Her face was drawn tight with the kind of exhaustion that lives in the bones. Not theatrical. Not dramatic. Just spent.

“He has autism,” she said quietly. “And PTSD. His sister is in Denver. She has stage-four cancer. We have to get on that plane.”

There it was. Not a speech. Just the truth, laid out fast because there was no time for style.

Marco nodded once. “Can he stand for screening?”

“For a second maybe, if he doesn’t panic.”

Daniel stood when asked, but only halfway. His bag slipped from his lap, hit the floor with a metallic clang, and one of the alarms chirped sharp and red. The officer at the scanner stiffened.

“Sir, step back.”

That did it.

Daniel’s face changed completely. He looked like someone had dropped him into icy water. “I can’t,” he said, louder now. “I can’t do this.”

The people behind them started shifting and craning their necks.

“What’s the holdup?”

“Some of us have flights.”

Marco ignored them. The woman looked at him with a kind of desperate control, the look of somebody trying not to fall apart because she knows if she does, the whole thing will collapse.

“Please,” she said. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Protocol said secondary screening. Pat-down. Extra time. More explanation. More waiting. A near-certain missed flight.

Marco knew exactly what he was supposed to do.

He also knew what it would mean.

He thought about the final rent notice folded on his kitchen counter. He thought about the cedar jewelry box in his spare room, growing lighter every week. He thought about how many times lately he had told himself that following the rules was the same thing as being a decent man.

Maybe it usually was.

Maybe not today.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“Ma’am, I need you to stay with him and keep talking to him. Slow. Just keep talking.”

She nodded immediately.

Marco turned to the officer at the scanner. “Open the side screening lane.”

The officer frowned. “We’re backed up already.”

“I know. Open it.”

He keyed his badge, called for a private screening assist, and spoke into his radio with the kind of calm that sounds more official than argument ever does.

“Adult passenger with documented disability and medical emergency. We’re moving to expedited private screening.”

The supervisor’s voice came back edged with irritation. “Ruiz, we do not have standing authorization to bypass.”

“I’m not bypassing,” Marco said. “I’m containing.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Make it fast.”

That was as close to permission as he was going to get.

Marco took the suitcase himself and motioned them through the side gate. The mother’s mouth parted slightly, not in relief exactly, but in disbelief that someone had stopped making things worse.

Inside the smaller screening area, the noise dropped. Daniel was still breathing hard, still resisting, but he was no longer drowning in the full chaos of the checkpoint. His mother crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee.

“You’re okay. We’re going to see Carla. We’re going to see your sister.”

Marco kept his movements slow and clear. No barking. No sudden gestures. He had another officer hand-check the bag while he explained each step before it happened. Daniel flinched twice but held on.

Five minutes. Maybe six.

Long enough to matter.

When they were cleared, Marco stepped out with them and pointed toward the gate corridor.

“Go. Now.”

The woman’s eyes filled, but she did not waste time thanking him with a speech. She just said, “Thank you,” like the words had been dragged up from somewhere raw, then turned and pushed Daniel forward as fast as she could.

Marco watched them disappear into the moving crowd.

Then he went back to his lane.

The checkpoint was still packed. The rain still came down in sheets against the windows. The supervisor was already looking his way, expression unreadable. Marco knew there would be a note in the system. Maybe a reprimand. Maybe worse. He knew better than to romanticize any of it.

His problems had not vanished. The rent was still due. His mother was still gone. The government would still do what governments do best when ordinary people are the ones expected to absorb the damage.

But something in him had settled.

Not softened. Settled.

He picked up the next gray bin and slid it forward.

“Shoes off, please. Laptops out.”

His handheld device buzzed once on the counter beside him. He glanced down.

Sale completed: gold wedding band — $250

Marco stared at the screen for a moment, then locked it and slipped it back into his pocket.

It would barely cover anything.

Still, for one brief stretch of time in a place built on delay, suspicion, and procedure, he had managed to act like a man instead of a mechanism. It was not noble. It was not grand. It would not fix the system that had put him there.

But it was something.

Outside, the planes waited in the rain, silver and blurred behind the glass.

Inside, the line kept moving.

 

The rain had turned the tarmac into a greasy mirror. At LAX, the line for security stretched past the terminal’s glass doors, a slow-moving mass of wet jackets, carry-ons, and tired faces. Every few minutes the overhead announcements crackled through the terminal, muffled by the weather and the noise of people already running late.

Officer Marco Ruiz stood at his station and tried not to think about rent.

His TSA badge sat on his chest like it still meant something solid. Once, it had. Now it mostly meant he was still employed, still standing, still one of the people expected to hold the line while the people above him argued over budgets and deadlines and left the rest of them to absorb the fallout.

For weeks, his paycheck had been delayed in the Homeland Security funding deadlock. The bills had not been delayed. His landlord certainly had not delayed anything. Marco had started selling off pieces of his mother’s jewelry online, one careful photo at a time. A pair of silver earrings. A gold wedding band. A pearl necklace she used to wear to church with her navy dress. The money came in uneven drips, never enough to do more than push the panic back a few feet.

He was good at rules. Good at routine. Good at repeating the same motions until they became muscle memory. Belt. Shoes. Laptop out. Step forward. Hold still. Next. He had built a life on doing things the right way, even when the right way felt cold.

That morning, nothing felt orderly.

The line kept swelling. A supervisor down the checkpoint was on the phone, jaw tight, eyes flat. A wall monitor showed the damage in blunt language: Officer Shortage: 34% | Projected Delays: 2–4 Hours.

People were muttering now, the way crowds do when inconvenience starts turning personal.

That was when Marco saw them.

A woman in her fifties, soaked at the shoulders, was pushing an airport wheelchair while dragging a suitcase behind her. In the chair sat a young man in his twenties, big enough that she had to lean into every turn. His foot tapped rapidly against the metal bar below the seat. His hands were working the edge of his sweatshirt sleeves, twisting the fabric hard enough to stretch it. He wore a medical bracelet.

The woman kept glancing from the line to the clock to her son and back again, like she was trying to manage four emergencies with two hands.

Marco checked the time on the monitor above the lane. Their flight was boarding in nine minutes.

As they got closer, the young man’s breathing changed. Marco had seen that before. The tightening jaw. The eyes dropping to the floor. The shoulders drawing up. The noise of the checkpoint, the bins banging, children crying, officers calling instructions, all of it was starting to close in on him.

When they reached the scanner, the woman bent down quickly.

“Daniel, honey, just a little more. We’re almost there.”

Daniel shook his head hard. “No. No, no, no.”

The woman looked up at Marco. Her face was drawn tight with the kind of exhaustion that lives in the bones. Not theatrical. Not dramatic. Just spent.

“He has autism,” she said quietly. “And PTSD. His sister is in Denver. She has stage-four cancer. We have to get on that plane.”

There it was. Not a speech. Just the truth, laid out fast because there was no time for style.

Marco nodded once. “Can he stand for screening?”

“For a second maybe, if he doesn’t panic.”

Daniel stood when asked, but only halfway. His bag slipped from his lap, hit the floor with a metallic clang, and one of the alarms chirped sharp and red. The officer at the scanner stiffened.

“Sir, step back.”

That did it.

Daniel’s face changed completely. He looked like someone had dropped him into icy water. “I can’t,” he said, louder now. “I can’t do this.”

The people behind them started shifting and craning their necks.

“What’s the holdup?”

“Some of us have flights.”

Marco ignored them. The woman looked at him with a kind of desperate control, the look of somebody trying not to fall apart because she knows if she does, the whole thing will collapse.

“Please,” she said. “Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Protocol said secondary screening. Pat-down. Extra time. More explanation. More waiting. A near-certain missed flight.

Marco knew exactly what he was supposed to do.

He also knew what it would mean.

He thought about the final rent notice folded on his kitchen counter. He thought about the cedar jewelry box in his spare room, growing lighter every week. He thought about how many times lately he had told himself that following the rules was the same thing as being a decent man.

Maybe it usually was.

Maybe not today.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“Ma’am, I need you to stay with him and keep talking to him. Slow. Just keep talking.”

She nodded immediately.

Marco turned to the officer at the scanner. “Open the side screening lane.”

The officer frowned. “We’re backed up already.”

“I know. Open it.”

He keyed his badge, called for a private screening assist, and spoke into his radio with the kind of calm that sounds more official than argument ever does.

“Adult passenger with documented disability and medical emergency. We’re moving to expedited private screening.”

The supervisor’s voice came back edged with irritation. “Ruiz, we do not have standing authorization to bypass.”

“I’m not bypassing,” Marco said. “I’m containing.”

A beat of silence.

Then: “Make it fast.”

That was as close to permission as he was going to get.

Marco took the suitcase himself and motioned them through the side gate. The mother’s mouth parted slightly, not in relief exactly, but in disbelief that someone had stopped making things worse.

Inside the smaller screening area, the noise dropped. Daniel was still breathing hard, still resisting, but he was no longer drowning in the full chaos of the checkpoint. His mother crouched in front of him, one hand on his knee.

“You’re okay. We’re going to see Carla. We’re going to see your sister.”

Marco kept his movements slow and clear. No barking. No sudden gestures. He had another officer hand-check the bag while he explained each step before it happened. Daniel flinched twice but held on.

Five minutes. Maybe six.

Long enough to matter.

When they were cleared, Marco stepped out with them and pointed toward the gate corridor.

“Go. Now.”

The woman’s eyes filled, but she did not waste time thanking him with a speech. She just said, “Thank you,” like the words had been dragged up from somewhere raw, then turned and pushed Daniel forward as fast as she could.

Marco watched them disappear into the moving crowd.

Then he went back to his lane.

The checkpoint was still packed. The rain still came down in sheets against the windows. The supervisor was already looking his way, expression unreadable. Marco knew there would be a note in the system. Maybe a reprimand. Maybe worse. He knew better than to romanticize any of it.

His problems had not vanished. The rent was still due. His mother was still gone. The government would still do what governments do best when ordinary people are the ones expected to absorb the damage.

But something in him had settled.

Not softened. Settled.

He picked up the next gray bin and slid it forward.

“Shoes off, please. Laptops out.”

His handheld device buzzed once on the counter beside him. He glanced down.

Sale completed: gold wedding band — $250

Marco stared at the screen for a moment, then locked it and slipped it back into his pocket.

It would barely cover anything.

Still, for one brief stretch of time in a place built on delay, suspicion, and procedure, he had managed to act like a man instead of a mechanism. It was not noble. It was not grand. It would not fix the system that had put him there.

But it was something.

Outside, the planes waited in the rain, silver and blurred behind the glass.

Inside, the line kept moving.

 

A Hat Full of Hope

 

The neon glow of downtown Lakeside flickered like a giant‑sized cassette player stuck on “fast forward.” It was 1984, and the brand‑new “Electric Galaxy” disco was already the talk of every diner booth, roller‑rink bench, and water‑cooler. In the midst of this synth‑driven frenzy stood John Hernandes, a thirty‑something with a crooked grin, a pocket full of mixtape‑cored confidence, and, most importantly a black cowboy hat that seemed to have been salvaged from a Western film set and then polished to a glossy, slightly rebellious shine.

John loved three things in life: his sprawling circle of friends who could recite the entire “St. Elmo’s Fire” soundtrack in perfect order, music in all its glorious, ear‑splitting forms, and the dizzying, heart‑stopping feeling of being in love. The problem, however, was that the love part kept slipping through his fingers like a busted cassette tape.

 

He’d first spotted Melissa at the community center’s Tuesday night “Funk‑a‑Thon.” She was laughing at a joke that, frankly, no one else seemed to get, John’s joke. As the crowd dispersed, he strutted, well, shuffled in his signature hat, rehearsing the line he’d practice in front of his bathroom mirror: “Hey, uh… want to go to the new disco? I hear they’ve got a song that makes people… um, feel better.” He imagined the moment the synth‑pop anthem “Electric Dreams” hit the speakers; he could already see Melissa’s eyes softening, her hips loosening, perhaps even a spontaneous duet of “Take on Me” forming between them.

 

The first attempt was a disaster. John approached Melissa while she was loading a stack of VHS tapes into her car, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes. He cleared his throat, his voice cracking like a broken record. “Hey, Melissa… uh… want to go… to the disco?” he blurted. She looked up, smiled politely, and replied, “Thanks, John, but I’m actually meeting my boyfriend for a—” and turned the key, the car engine coughing to life. John’s hat tilted sideways as he watched the tail lights fade, wondering whether his hat was somehow signaling “single‑pride” to the universe.

Undeterred, John turned to his next target: the barista at the corner coffee shop, who always wore a cardigan covered in tiny, glittery stars. He ordered a latte, made a point of slurping it with exaggerated gusto, and then, courage in hand said, “You know, there’s a new disco downtown, and they play ‘I Want to Break Free.’ I think it could… you know… set us free.” The barista, eyes wide with polite confusion, handed him his coffee and whispered, “I’m actually on a date with the owner’s son. Also, I’m allergic to dancing.” John’s hat, now askew, seemed to sigh with him.

It was a pattern. Women, no matter how friendly, would gently, or not so gently decline. The more he tried, the more the rejections piled up like unsold 45‑rpm singles in a record store’s backroom. One evening, after a particularly awkward attempt involving a karaoke rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’” at a neighborhood block party (where he sang and the microphone emitted a high‑pitched whine, prompting a flock of pigeons to take flight), John sat on the curb, his hat perched like a forlorn feather on a tired bird.

 

“John, why do you keep doing this?” asked his best friend, Carl, sliding his own baseball cap onto his head, a cap that, unlike John’s hat, was not a fashion statement but a practical shield against the night’s chill.

John shrugged, the motion sending a stray strand of his hair flicking his forehead. “I guess… I think if the right song plays, the right person will… feel something. Like the beat will loosen up whatever… anxiety’s got in the way.”

 

Carl chuckled, nudging him. “Buddy, you can’t force a song to do the work that a conversation, an actual conversation has to do.”

 

John stared at his hat, the black brim now covered in a smear of neon stickers he’d collected over the years: a palm tree, a cassette, a pair of roller‑skates. They were meant to say “fun,” but now felt like a billboard for his misplaced optimism.

 

The night the “Electric Galaxy” finally opened, the streets were a kaleidoscope of neon spandex, glow‑sticks, and people whose hair seemed taller than the building’s elevator shaft. John, with his trusty hat, arrived early, clutching a mixtape he’d made himself: side A—his favorite ‘80s love anthems, side B—his own renditions of the same songs, recorded on a battered Walkman. He stood by the entrance, pretending to adjust his hat every five seconds, hoping the act itself might attract a curious glance.

 

A woman in a silver jumpsuit, with a hairdo that could have been a tribute to a lightning bolt, approached. She was the epitome of disco, radiant, confident, and evidently in need of a “dance‑floor navigator.” John felt his heart thump like the bass line of “Billie Jean.” He stepped forward, hat in hand, and said, “Excuse me, I… I’m John. I have a mixtape, and I was wondering if you’d like to hear the song that—”

She cut him off, laughing. “You’re that guy with the cowboy hat, right? I’ve seen you trying to get people to the disco for weeks.”

 

John blushed brighter than his hat. “Yes…”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and her smile softened. “Honestly? I’ve been watching you. You’re the only person who actually brings his own mixtape to a club.”  She lowered her voice conspiratorily. “My name’s Tara. I’m actually on a solo mission, trying to survive the first week of this place without pulling a hammy. Care to… be a partner in crime? And maybe share that mixtape?”

The universe seemed to hold its breath as John handed over his worn cassette, his fingers trembling. Tara slipped a pair of oversized sunglasses onto her face, then, for a moment, they both stood there, one in a black cowboy hat, the other in silver sequins, listening to the crackle of tape as “Take on Me” erupted from the speaker.

The song’s synth hooks wove through the air, and as the chorus hit, Tara’s shoulders relaxed, her head bobbing in time. John, feeling a surge of confidence, sang a half‑hearted line. Tara joined in, laughing. The crowd around them began to sway; a few people glanced over, bemused at the sight of a man in a cowboy hat and a woman in sequins bonding over a mixtape.

 

When the track ended, Tara turned to John, eyes sparkling. “You know, I’ve been rejected a lot lately, too. Not because of my dancing, but because I kept thinking the right song would fix everything. Maybe… maybe the right song is just the excuse to meet the right person.”

 

John’s hat sat a little straighter on his head. He realized that his endless rejections weren’t a sign that he was unlovable; they were simply stepping stones toward this moment, a moment where the music, his friends, and his love for love finally intersected.

Later, as the night deepened and the “Electric Galaxy” shimmered under strobes, John and Tara found a corner of the dance floor. The DJ spun “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record),” and they spun, both literally and metaphorically into the rhythm. The hat, now a little dustier but still proudly black, stayed perched on John’s head, no longer a symbol of awkward attempts but a badge of perseverance.

 

And somewhere, beyond the pulsing lights, a mixtape whirred in a Walkman, its tape spooling out the melody of a love that had finally found its groove.

River of Time

 

River of Time

At moments like these, David tried to remember that going out on nonsense stories was part of a reporter’s job. His beat was a mix of investigative and human-interest stories, which were often strange—and this one was.

A man had called in to one of the city’s all-night radio talk shows several nights in a row with tales about what was going to happen that day. In his first call, he had claimed that a large meteorite would be seen flashing over Albuquerque, New Mexico, at 5:03 am that morning. That happened, right on schedule. The next night, he called and told of a small earthquake that would occur in Peru at 11:08 am, centered on the town of Caleón. That too happened, right on schedule. David took a deep dive to figure out who this man was.

At this point, the radio station contacted the newspaper, and David was put on the story. He asked the host to ask the caller, if he called again, to meet David for a drink, off the record, at a bar in the city’s lawyer district.

The caller called in that night just after midnight. He claimed that a tornado would touch down at 4:24 pm near the city of Lincoln, Nebraska. A few minutes after the caller went off the air, David received an email from the host: the caller had accepted David’s invitation and would be at the Hammer and Anvil, on 14th Street, at 9 pm.

David had watched the weather in Lincoln all day as it deteriorated; the tornado warning was issued at 4:04 pm, and the tornado made its appearance right on time, destroying an auto parts store. And now, two hours later, David was on his way to the Hammer and Anvil.

At 8:58 pm, an older man stepped through the door. Around his head, he wore a red bandanna, a T-shirt, and jeans. From the bandanna came two long, thick braids.

David ordered a drink and sat there waiting for something to happen. The man didn’t look up, but simply stepped awkwardly around the corner of the bar, just as David had done, and sat down on the stool next to him. “Keeping an eye on the door?” the man asked.

David immediately recognized the voice from the radio show. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know it was me?”

“I know things,” the man said. He turned in his stool and David got a look at his face—he had wrinkles that could probably tell their own story. He had graying hair in two thick braids and a patchy white beard.

“You work for a newspaper, right?”
“That’s right. The Globe.”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. Never actually seen it.”

“Ah,” David said. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out a reporter’s notepad. “You don’t mind if I take a few notes?”

The man shrugged and looked at an elaborate watch on his left wrist. “The time has passed now,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what you do.”

“I see,” David said, not really seeing, but willing to say anything to get to his questions. “Can you tell me your name?”

“No,” the man said. His eyes were roving around the bar; David got the feeling that he was more interested in the women sprinkled here and there. One of them caught his eye, smiled, and he smiled back and nodded.

“You’ve been making some predictions on the radio and they’ve been coming true. Can you tell me about that?”

“It’s not a secret,” he said flatly. “I’m a time traveler.” He pulled his eyes away from the woman and turned to David. “I watched these things play out the first time, and then I came back here and started calling that show.”

“You watched them play out,” David repeated. “What does that mean?”

“I’m sort of a navigator, I guess you could say. I navigate time.”

“Navigate time. How do you do that, exactly?”

“Well, it’s a little like navigating a boat. You ever been on a boat?”

“Yeah. How is it like navigating a boat?”

“Time is a river. I have a ship and I sail in the river. I navigate upstream and down.”

“Ah,” David said. “What is it that you’re trying to accomplish?”

The man turned to David. “I had to get you here instead of—where you would have been tonight.”

“Yeah? And where’s that?”

“At home,” the man said.

“Will you be calling in to the show tonight?”

“No,” the man said. “Last night was the last time.” The man got up. “It’s been great talking to you.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to where I came from, which will be different now that you’re here and not where you would have been. If you had not met me here tonight.” And without another word, the man got up, placed his hat back on his head, and strode out the door and into the night.

David drove home, and when he got close, he could see yellow flickers of flame reflecting off the houses on his street—something big was on fire. As he approached, he saw that his own house had collapsed into itself and was a raging inferno. There were fire trucks parked at odd angles, and an ambulance sped past him as he parked and got out. He approached one of the firemen. “This is my house!” David said. “What happened?!”

“Propane tank explosion,” the fireman said. “We’ve got it contained, but if we spray the house, it’s going to spread embers everywhere. Nothing to do now but watch it burn.” The fireman turned to the structure. “The neighbors said you live alone. You live alone, right?”

“Yeah.”
“Ah,” the fireman said. “Well. Good thing you were out.”

When Sylvie Sang

When Sylvie Sang

When Sylvie sang the men at the bar would stop and turn on their stools to listen. The bartender would dry his hands, move to the end of the bar, and light up a cigarette. The waitresses would huddle by the wall and hug their trays flat against their bosoms. And the drunken man who cried softly to himself in the corner by the door would lift his eyes and rub his hands together underneath an invisible spigot.

"When Sunny gets blue, her eyes get gray and cloudy."

When Sylvie sang she never really heard the music or thought about the words. She was far away in a small town by a riverbank, holding onto someone she loved... someone she lost. She only heard his voice, felt his heat, and the nightclub disappeared.

But the song always had to end, and when the music stopped the men at the bar would turn again and start to laugh and talk. The waitresses would rush to cover their thirsty stations, and the drunken man would close his eyes again and descend inside himself.

Sylvie would go out into the alley and stare at the night sky. One evening she clung for a moment to the sound of distant laughter. She paused when she saw the couple in love cross an intersection, and she closed the gallery in her mind and slipped into a world of smoke and mirrors until she was called back for her next set. The singing paid the rent and bought groceries, but it cost her dearly. Every night when the neon lights went out, she'd walk back to her room, six blocks down, two blocks over, past the on-ramp, next to the Hallmark store. And there, with no lights on, Sylvie would sing for herself and make love by the riverbank with no audience looking on. And every night the return trip from the riverbank got longer and longer. She paced her days away inside that room.

Her room next to the Hallmark store had once been part of a large house that was broken down into crash pads in the late 1960s. By the terms of the rental agreement there was to be no cooking in any of the apartments. But everyone cooked. Sylvie had one of those GE toaster ovens that she kept on the floor by her bed, and on those cold nights she turned it on and opened the glass door just a crack to let it warm her face.

When there was no show, no songs for Sylvie to sing, no way for her to leave the 'here' behind, images came to her in flashes of light. Voices yelled and swore at her. Distant blows landed on her body. The river overflowed its banks and her Lover floated away, out of sight, and was gone.

The water seeped into the floor causing the ceiling of the apartment below to discolor and drop pieces of green-painted plaster onto the bed of the widower who lived alone and kept diaries so that someday “the world will know. So they'll all know.”

When his ceiling began to fall he ran into the hall. The commotion pulled some of the other tenants out of their rooms, and after a short crisis meeting that bounced back and forth between English, Tagalog, Spanish, and perhaps Greek, they marched, as a small mob, up the stairs to Sylvie's door. The water coming from her room followed the slope of the floor out into the hallway, soaking the frayed edge of the hallway rug. The widower pounded on the door as they all yelled for her to open up. When they got no answer and the water had started its way down the stairs, the widower kicked in Sylvie's door. The door jumped from its hinges and fell to the floor. They could see the water coming from the bathroom, and so the widower and a few other neighbors crowded in. The rest filled the doorway.

There she was, sitting naked on the floor of the shower with her porcelain arms full of paperback romance novels, books of mysteries, and many beauty magazines. She didn't look up when they came in. Her eyes stayed fixed straight ahead.

The widower reached over and turned off the water while one of the ladies began to scream at her about how her craziness was going to cause trouble for all of them. About how if the building inspector came in and found out about all of the cooking, the owner would be forced to bring the place up to code and where were they all supposed to live while the work was being done? And about how, even then, they wouldn't be able to afford the new higher rents that the repairs would cause. Another man shouted at Sylvie to get her shit together or just get the hell out of the building and leave them all in peace.

She didn't hear a word he said. She just stood up, left the dripping books and dresses, and walked past them. As she lowered herself onto the sofa she stopped and looked the widower in the eyes. Then she rolled over and went to sleep. The others started to leave, and the widower covered her with an old afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. On her bed, laid out very carefully, were three silky-looking black dresses on padded hangers. He should have left then too, but he didn't. He stayed and looked at all the books and the three black dresses. The dresses didn't fit in. Everything else in the apartment was worn and neglected, but those dresses were immaculate and cared for. All of the other clothes in her closet were casual and looked as though she bought them from a thrift shop. The dresses were expensive and classy. And they faintly smelled of cigarettes and lilacs. He put the door back on its hinges and went home and got a little drunk.

After that night the others began to freeze her out. The Armenian woman with no bottom teeth stopped saying hello in the hallway, and the young couple, who were both runaways and so much in love, never asked her to share a joint anymore.

One night when the widower was taking out his garbage he saw her, in one of her black silk dresses. He didn't quite know why, but he became so curious about her. She was such a dramatic mystery to him. He followed her to the nightclub, the "Satin Rose," and stayed until closing time and then followed her home. Night after night he went to the club. He'd sit at the bar, close his eyes, and let Sylvie's voice make him feel good. He didn't want her to see him. He would be compelled to tell her how he felt and he couldn't do that. He was falling in love with her, and she was barely aware of him. And besides, everyone in the club knew that Sylvie was in love already with someone that no one could ever outshine. One song and you just knew.

But the widower wanted to be something to her—do something for her. So, he began to feed her. He would fix food for her and put it by her door. Soup, eggs, some meat when he could afford it. The widower wasn't much of a chef, but he could fix what he remembered his mother making for him. Stew. He crushed vitamins and mixed them in.

At first, she didn't eat anything that the widower made for her. Then she started to take a few bites and, finally, she began to eat everything he put down for her.

In the morning, while he knew she'd still be sleeping, he'd come up and get the dishes from the hallway. Last month, she left him a paper napkin that she'd kissed. He wished he could say things to her in words as eloquently as she spoke from a napkin.

One Friday, the widower had to work late so he couldn't go to the club. When he got home he fixed himself a meal and put a plate in the hallway for Sylvie. The next morning it was still there.

That night the widower went over to the club, but somebody else was singing. He asked the bartender why Sylvie wasn't there. He said that the night before Sylvie had done her usual show except, after the last set, she went through the club and thanked everybody for being there—shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and then she said good-bye, picked up a small brown suitcase from behind the bar, and walked out the door. Then he handed the widower a note. “Here. I believe this is for you,” he said.

The note read:

"Thank you very much.

For coming to hear me sing, for the food,

for loving me when I couldn't."

That night she sang the last song that she felt she had to sing. "Love brings such misery and pain. I know I'll never be the same. Since I fell for you...." When Sylvie sang.

Between Guilt & Grace

 

PROLOGUE

There are stories we tell to survive — and then there are the ones we finally tell because we’re ready to live.

This is not a story of triumph. It is a story of reckoning.

I was born a daughter to a woman who didn’t want softness in the house. I was a sister to a girl who taught me how to laugh through closed windows and run down sidewalks like our legs belonged to someone freer. I was a child who learned early that safety could vanish in a blink, and that silence was often the only language allowed.

I wasn’t always the victim. I wasn’t always the hero either. I was just a girl. Then a teenager. Then a mother too soon. A woman trying to disappear. A woman aching to be seen.

This is not a clean story. It is not linear, or tidy, or fully redeemed. I didn’t always make the right choices. I didn’t always know how to stay. And yes — I left people I loved.

But I also returned to myself. Piece by piece. I learned how to mother my children, but also the child inside me.

There’s a place between guilt and grace. It’s quiet there. Lonely, often. But if you stay long enough, and listen honestly enough, you might hear something unexpected:

You’re still here. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to begin again.

This is that story.

CHAPTER ONE

The First Cut

My mother had locked me out of the house again. I wracked my brain, trying to pinpoint the misstep that had pissed her off this time, but each attempt was met with a fog of confusion and dread. I went to the library for a few hours and started back home. The night sky was a pitch-black canvas, devoid of the moon's comforting glow, and the wind sliced through the air, its icy blades stinging my cheeks. I had stayed out as long as possible to worry my mother. She was frustrated with my relentless, rebellion and, adolescent retort. The neighborhood seemed a darker more sinister version than earlier that day. Every color had drained from the neighborhood, leaving behind a bleak, muddy monochrome that swallowed any hint of life. The gardens, the cars and the sky blended together into a dark shadowy gray existence that floated low and wide down each street. The earlier voices of children's laughter were replaced by arguing drunks as they swayed in unison down the walkway.

Two blocks more from home. Then came the footsteps. Behind me the sound of heavy boot heals were drumming closer on the pavement and increasing in speed. My heart attempted to escape. What's happening? Should I run? Should I look behind me?
The footsteps stopped right behind me. Everything stopped. My heart stopped. Time stopped. Suddenly, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I swung around in a panic.

“Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” He smiled through his grizzly beard. He was jittery in his movements and dressed like he just been at a dinner party.

“Do you know which way Pico Blvd is?”

I breathed a sigh of relief and figured he must be very new to the area because Pico Blvd was just a block down the sidewalk we were standing on. I pointed to the Pico Boulevard sign in the distance that was eliminated by a lamp post.

He grabbed my extended hand and twisted up behind my back and covered my mouth with his other hand. Now he was behind me. I was frozen.

My mouth was covered by the other.
"Listen little girl, do you want to die tonight?"
He release my hand from behind my back when I heard a CLICK. A switchblade was now open and moving along the side of my neck. He He used my hair to pull me between two houses. His breathing was heavy and grunted every few steps. I was silent. A women saw us through her kitchen window. She yanked down her blinds. I screamed inside.

He dragged me to an alley that was watched over by a full moon. Is this how I end? I'm going to die at fourteen?

At the end of the alley, he pushed me down along side a dumpster. There was no sign of life emanating from the silent dark houses that bordered the alley.

"Take that fuckin' shit off!", he hissed as he pressed his knife up against the side of my neck.

With shaky hands I started to fumble with the buttons of my blouse. I was separating myself between victim and spectator. He tore off my panties from under my skirt, climbed onto me and penetrate my soul. I looked into his eyes. I felt myself shatter...pieces of me lost forever.

In his lurching he sliced me behind my right ear. I welcomed the pain to escape what I couldn't understand. My back now submerged in its own blood from thrusts grinding me into the glass and rocks beneath me....grinding away until I was no different than all the discarded trash surrounding me. When he was finished he stood up, kicked me in the ribs and ran off. I laid there long enough to feel the morning dew, reminding me I was still alive.

I could hear cars starting engines up and down the alley. I sat up. The back of my bloody blouse clung to my back. I scurried up and tried to find my underwear and one of my shoes. There was nothing but garbage all around. I was garbage. The normal world was waking up and I started to panic. I made my way between two houses out to the sidewalk. All I had to do was get to Pico Boulevard and cross over to our building, It seemed insurmountable but I made it. I repeatedly pushed the button at the crosswalk. A couple of cars honks as they drove by. I looked down to see blood trailing down the side of my right leg down to my ankle. I became lightheaded.

Finally the green walk sign blinked at me. I ran the rest of the way home to my front door that was locked. I had lost my key in the attack. A wave of dizziness overcame me, and I collapsed onto the welcome mat, my vision blurring as exhaustion and fear took their toll. A big chunk of my hair fell down next to my foot.

The door flew open.

“You think you can go traipsing around all night and be welcomed back here?” Mom yelled. I heard one of our neighbors in the building slam her sliding wind shut. Mom looked me over. “What are you, drunk? INGRATE!!” and slammed the door shut.

At that moment, I would have welcomed anything she wanted to do to me as long as I could go inside. It wasn't the first time Mom had locked me out. I went to the laundry room for our building. I cleaned myself up the best I could at the little sink. I still had glass embedded in my leg. I managed to get that out but I couldn't do much about the teeny pieces in my back. My heart was racing in fear of being discovered by one of the neighbors doing laundry. The morning progressed and I sat out on the bus stop across the street. I was trying to place myself inside a normal painting of a normal neighborhood.

I saw Mom drive off to work in her light blue Volkswagen Beetle. Luckily, I was able to climb in through our kitchen window.

I sat down in the shower and cried for at least an hour. I thought the water would wash of the horror but it didn't. I felt so alone. I truly wanted to die. My birthday was coming up in two weeks. I thought that would be the perfect day to die. I stopped. I shut off the water. I scared myself. I heard Mom's voice in my head: You're weak! and then Amy's: You're tougher than you think you are kid.

I sat in the shower, the scalding water tracing paths down my back, stinging every raw cut, every bruise, every place where his knife or fists or breath had left a mark. My skin was screaming, but it was the quiet inside me that terrified me most.

I thought the water would wash it off — the shame, the filth, the pieces of me that were no longer mine — but they clung like invisible thorns under my skin. I stared at the tiled wall, at the little crack in the grout, thinking: maybe if I just stare long enough, I’ll slip through it, disappear between the cracks.

The air filled with steam. It curled around me like a ghost’s breath, whispering the worst things I dared not say out loud:
You’re nothing. You’re garbage.
You are what he left behind.

My birthday was coming up in two weeks. Two weeks. I ran the math over and over in my head, counting the days like a twisted gift, the way you count down to an execution date. Wouldn’t that be the perfect day to go? A clean circle. One last little joke on this body, this girl, this life.

But then, cutting through the fog, came the voices — two of them, like dueling spirits perched on either shoulder.
Mom’s voice, sharp as a blade: You’re weak.
Amy’s voice, soft but fierce: You’re tougher than you think you are, kid.

I gripped my knees to my chest, rocking just slightly, trying to figure out which voice was right. Was I the shattered thing curled up on this cold porcelain floor, or was I still the girl who knew how to run, how to stay alive?

When I finally turned off the water, the silence hit like a slap. I wrapped myself in my yellow terrycloth robe — the only soft thing I owned — and felt it absorb not just the water, but everything I couldn’t name: the rage, the grief, the fact that no one had come for me, not on the street, not at home, not in the dark or the light.

And when I climbed into bed, still trembling, the house around me stayed quiet. No one knocked. No one asked. The clock read 7:30 p.m., but it could’ve been midnight, or dawn, or forever.

I lay there, awake, feeling the seconds pass like dripping water, wondering if they were cleansing me or drowning me — and realizing, maybe for the first time, that surviving wasn’t the same as being saved.

For weeks and months after the rape, my brain shut down. I felt numb...empty. I was just going through the motions of a regular or normal fourteen and then fifteen year old. All feelings of hurt, shame, anger, guilt and confusion were locked away. I saw myself as an outsider in my own life. As if from the outside, I watched myself smile and laugh but I didn't feel any of it. I was detached on the inside yet I had visceral physical reaction to the outside world. My body had its own traumatic memory. If someone would shout or laugh loudly I'd jump in my skin. I panicked if I wore a sweater that was up around my neck.

After the assault, my body became a stranger, and my voice a whisper I barely recognized. But if there was one thing that still anchored me to the world, it was Amy — wild, defiant, and shining like the last star in a bruised sky.

CHAPTER TWO

Amy

My first introductions to human relationships were with women: my mother and my older sister, Amy. There were men in the family, but I never knew them. My grandfather died two months before my father left us for good. I have a vague memory of my older brother. He was put in a special community for mental disabilities.

The first bond I remember was with my older sister. Amy was five years older and held all the secrets of being a cool teenager. Amy was my hero, the beacon of adventure in my otherwise mundane world. Every day with her was a promise of freedom and excitement, a chance to escape the oppressive weight of reality. I followed her everywhere. When Amy picked me up from third grade, I knew adventure awaited. We never went straight home, where fun died when Mom came home. Amy and I would walk down Motor Ave in Palms, California. Motor Ave was a tapestry of vibrant life, with palm trees swaying under the Californian sun, their shadows dancing on the sidewalks. We strolled down Motor Ave, Amy's hand firmly gripping mine, as if to anchor me to her boundless world. Her laughter was infectious, a shield against the harshness of life, and I clung to her side, feeling invincible in her presence.

It was April of 1967. Amy, with her fearless fashion sense, seemed to radiate a rebellious energy. Her mock-neck top in bold green and blue stripes clashed delightfully with the bright yellow mini skirt, creating a visual symphony that mirrored her defiant spirit. Her shiny patent leather belt cinched her waist with the audacity only a teenager could possess. As we walked, her little transistor radio played “To Sir With Love” by Lulu. The radio dial was always on KHJ, “Boss Radio.” DJ Robert W. Morgan updated us on all the top hits. KHJ, 'Boss Radio,' was our portal to the pulsating heartbeat of 1967. The airwaves crackled with the counterculture revolution, each song a rebellious anthem that defined a generation breaking free from our little neighborhood.

Sometimes we stopped at the hamburger joint across from my school. Other times, we picked up AquaNet at Lorraine's beauty salon. Often, we hung out at the gas station where Tom, a seventeen-year-old boy Amy liked, worked. She made me promise not to tell Tom she was only thirteen. Amy's mischievous grin was a testament to her cunning. 'Remember, not a word about my age,' she whispered conspiratorially, eyes sparkling with the thrill of her audacious deception. Her confidence was contagious, and I nodded, eager to be her trusted ally in the charade.The gas station was a bustling haven of adolescent rebellion. The acrid smell of gasoline mingled with the tobacco smoke as grease-stained boys lounged on car hoods, their laughter punctuating the air like the crackling static of the ever-present KHJ radio. “You've heard it on the streets, you've heard it in your dreams, and now you're hearing it here on 93KHJ. Here's the Rolling Stones with 'You Can't Always Get What You Want.'”

There were cars in various stages of disrepair. I loved stepping on the black rubber tube that rang out with our arrival. Tom would sweep me up and put me on the car lift. I would squeal. The boys told jokes, and Amy laughed with them. She felt pretty. I could tell. For the first time, I felt part of something, even if I was more of a mascot. I’ve loved the smell of gasoline ever since.

At home, it was usually just the two of us. Amy and I liked it that way. There was tension when Mom was there. We'd turn on the TV, part of the wooden TV/Stereo Hi-Fi in the living room. After I Dream Of Jeannie, it was time for American Bandstand. Many times we'd watch the dancers with the sound off. One time I laughed so hard my Orange Crush came out of my nose. I watched, mesmerized by the bright clothes and crazy hairstyles.

“Come on, kid, do The Swim!” Amy cheered. She had just taught me that one. I pinched my nose, trying to stop laughing. Amy laughed and praised me as she smoked a cigarette and talked on the phone. Then we heard keys in the front door. We looked at each other. I ran upstairs.

From the top of the stairs, I saw Mom come in, set her keys and purse on the kitchen bar. I saw Amy run into the downstairs bathroom.

“Amy!” Mom called out as I chewed at the ends of my braids. “Amy!” Louder. The bathroom door opened. Amy came into Mom's view, no longer wearing the black suede boots or the brunette bouffant hair. “I told you to do these dishes!” “Mom, I was just about to do them now,” Amy assured as she passed Mom to the kitchen sink. Mom glared at her as she filled the sink with sudsy water. “Make sure the water is hot,” Mom directed.

I moved into the bedroom Amy and I shared and closed the door. I heard Mom coming up the stairs. Her footsteps stopped just outside the door. I quickly picked up my Heidi book and pretended to read. The door opened, and Mom came in, crossed her arms, and looked around the room. Mom's presence was an unsettling blend of elegance and menace, her porcelain skin an icy mask that contrasted with the chaotic storm of jet-black hair piled atop her head. Her smudged mascara eyes, wide with disapproval, transformed every glance into a scene from a black-and-white horror film. I met her gaze. I cannot remember a time when she didn’t frighten me.

Pointing to the dresser, Mom said, “Those drawers better be organized.”

Without looking up from my book, I told her I had done that yesterday. “Look at me when I'm talking to you, young lady!” she ordered.

Mom's fury was a palpable force as she yanked open each dresser drawer, the sound of clothes hitting the floor echoing like thunderclaps. Her movements were deliberate, each action a punishment designed to humiliate and break me. When she was finished, she put her hands on her hips and ordered, “Now do it again and do it right. I'll be back in twenty minutes.”

She slammed the door on her way out. I heard her go back downstairs.

I sat on the shag carpeting and started folding a pair of jeans. It was eerily quiet. A minute later, the front door slammed. Was it Mom? Was it Amy? I stood on one of the twin beds to look out the window just in time to see Mom get into her Volkswagen Beetle and drive away.

I went back downstairs. It was still very quiet. “Amy?” Silence. “Amy?”

Then from behind me at the top of the stairs, “I’m up here, kid. I just put all of Mom's stuff back. What was she yelling at you about?”

I told her what happened and that Mom was coming back to check on me.

“What a bitch!” said Amy. “Come on, I'll help you.”

Amy always made me feel better in those days. We both sat on the floor, folding our clothes.

“I know she's going to spank me,” I whispered. I hoped Amy would reassure me otherwise. “She might,” Amy said. “You're lucky, kid. She still uses a hairbrush on you, right?”

I nodded.

“With me, she started with the brush, but I never cried. That’s what she wants, you know. She wants to make you cry. I never cried. So she moved on to the belt. But I never cried. Now she just cuts my hair off.” She looked at me and smiled. “Never cried... not once.”

As we put the last of the clothes away, Amy said, “But you know what, kid? Maybe it's okay if you cry. But even so, you're tougher than you think you are, kid.”

Mom came home but never came upstairs. I fell asleep, scared. In my eight-year-old world, Mom's unpredictable moods were like a relentless storm, casting shadows that loomed over our fragile sense of peace. Her words, sharp as daggers, carved wounds that never seemed to heal, leaving us to navigate the treacherous waters of her wrath. Her words cut deep. At thirteen, Amy was already wise beyond her years. I wanted to be brave like her. She stood her ground, absorbing the brunt of our mother's rage. I huddled on the bed, listening to the muffled sounds of their argument downstairs.

CHAPTER THREE

Little Girl Lost

The day after my eighth birthday, I stood in the doorway of our bedroom. The room was a collage of our childhood, with posters of rock bands taped on the walls and stuffed animals peeking out from under the bed. I watched Amy stuff her jeans, t-shirts, and mini skirts into her gym bag. Amy's hands moved deliberately, yet her eyes flickered with a hint of hesitation, as if each piece of clothing carried a memory she was reluctant to leave behind.

My heart pounded in my chest, a rhythmic drumbeat of panic and disbelief, as I watched her zip up the bag. It was hard to believe she was actually leaving. She had said many times that she would, but watching her pack made it all too real.

“Are you really leaving?” I asked.

“You always were a smart kid,” she said, tying her wild raven hair into a ponytail. She looked at me and smiled. “I’m sorry. Come here, kid. I want to talk to you.”

She cleared a space for me next to her on the bed.

“Did Mom kick you out?” I asked.

“No. This was my choice.”

“Why are you running away?”

“When Mom slapped me last night for the cigarette burn on the hi-fi, that was the last straw.”

I had no idea what straws had to do with this, but I was already confused.

“Actually, Mom has been holding me back from living my life. I should be able to choose how I live my own life.” She took a beat and looked at me. ”You're gonna be okay. Don't let her break you. Her voice wavered slightly, a tremor beneath her defiant words, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince me.

“But you’re only fourteen.” I pointed out. I clutched the hem of my shirt, twisting it in my fingers, a futile attempt to tether myself to something familiar.

“You’re going to find out how fast you can grow up in this house.”

Why does she have to go? A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep the tears away.

Amy picked up her bag and stood up. It was happening too fast. There was a beep-beep from the alley downstairs.

“That’s Tom. His family is going to let me stay with them. They’re cool. They protest the war, smoke, and drink beer. Every time I’m over there, they’re playing the Beatles or the Rolling Stones on the record player. So cool!”

My eyes welled up. “What about me?”

Amy gave me a little kiss on my left cheek, patted me on the head, approached the bedroom door and with one last wistful look back, Amy slung the bag over her shoulder, her footsteps echoing like a heartbeat as she walked out of the room, out of my life.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my body rooted to the spot, as if moving would somehow make her leaving more real. What about me?

Emptiness filled the house. The morning sun streamed through the window, casting long shadows on the floor, as if the room itself was sad Amy had left. Without Amy, the walls closed in on me, amplifying every harsh word and cruelty from my mother. I remembered the nights when Amy would sneak into my room, her whispers weaving tales of magical lands where sisters were never separated.

The loneliness was suffocating. Every corner of the house reminded me that Amy was gone. Mom's overall attitude about Amy's departure was “Good riddance to bad rubbish” or “She takes after your father.” I had no idea what that meant since I never knew my father. A chill crept down my spine as I realized how little it seemed to matter to her, my mother’s indifference a cruel reminder of the emptiness left behind. Mom would hold it over my head that I better not do as Amy did, or she would have me put in juvenile hall.

I missed Amy dreadfully. She was the one who cheered me up after a rough day at school or after one of Mom's blow-ups. Amy took the emotional sting away from the spankings. She would sneak me little treats and tell me stories to distract from the harsh reality we lived in. One of my favorites was about two magical hippie girls who battled the Wicked Witch of the Wrong. But now Amy was gone. There was no one to shield me. No one to whisper secrets to me in the dead of night. The nights were the hardest, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she missed me. How could she leave me alone with Mom? The isolation and fear were constant. Mom's temper grew stronger. Every sound, every movement in the house when Mom was home made me jump. I felt utterly lost.

The September after Amy left, Mom was in a rare good mood. There were only two things that made Mom happy: going to fancy parties in Bel Air and shopping.

“Get in the car. We’re going shopping!” she squealed. Mom smiled at me as I just stood there. “Go ahead! Maybe we’ll get you some school clothes too.”

The Century City Mall was one of our favorite places to go but for very different reasons. I liked it because of a buffet-style restaurant called Clifton’s. Mom loved it because her three favorite department stores—Joseph Magnin, Judy’s, and Bullocks—were all there.

We started by having lunch at Clifton’s. I couldn’t wait! It was such a big, fancy place! My favorite thing about Clifton’s was how they treated kids. Upon entering, kids were given a special plastic tray with a silver, shiny, plastic coin. When it was time to pay, I would hand the cashier my coin, and she would guide me to the “Treasure Chest” to pick out a toy. There were so many toys inside! Mom always encouraged me to pick a doll, but I never liked dolls, so I usually chose a game of jacks or a paddle ball. Today was different. I picked a deck of Old Maid. That lunch was the first time I laughed since Amy left. It was the first time I laughed with my mother in years.

Then it was time for Mom to shop. I, of course, thought department stores were boring. I tried to act like it was fun, but I was eight. It seemed to take my mother forever to look at every blouse and every pantsuit. It was always the same. Mom would pick up the garment, look at the price tag, hold it up against her body in front of a mirror, and tilt her head, slightly sucking in her cheeks. Every time.

That day, while Mom was in the fitting room, I hid inside one of those circular, rotating clothing racks. It was amazing! I could hear everyone around me, yet I was invisible like a secret spy. After what felt like an eternity, I no longer wanted to be invisible. I imagined Mom desperately looking for her little girl, worried and afraid. I thought it would make her love me. She would smile, pick me up with tears in her eyes, hug me tight, and everything would be happily ever after. I waited. I waited some more. It was probably only about ten minutes, but I was eight. Did Mom notice I was missing? Did she care?

Suddenly, I heard the department store loudspeaker: “Maria Herndon. Paging Maria Herndon. Please go to the front cashier desk. Your mother is looking for you.”

Mom is looking for me? She really does care! Excitedly, I crawled out from under the clothes rack and skipped to the cashier desk. I could see my mother from the back.

“Hey Mom! I’m here!”

She quickly turned and slapped the side of my head so hard I couldn’t hear for three days.

I tried to be out of the house as much as possible without getting in trouble for not being home. It was tricky. There was a small window of time between finishing my chores after school and when she returned from work, about two hours. But I didn’t have any friends’ houses to go to, so I would just walk around and maybe sit at the local bowling alley.

One day, I was on my way to the little neighborhood market a couple of blocks from our house. I noticed a gardener landscaping in front of the new yellow house. I had passed by this house many times. Amy used to call them “The Normies.” There was a mother, father, and a little girl a bit younger than me—all blonde. The gardener was lining up rows of little potted plants with flowers, colored rocks, and assorted cacti along the porch steps. Each pot was different, each with its own story.

I continued to the market to get Mom's cheddar cheese, bobby pins, Aqua Net, and Vogue magazine. On the way back, I saw the gardener drive off from the yellow house in a beat-up old white truck. I stopped to admire the plants again. I wondered about the people who lived in that yellow house. Were they happy? Did they laugh together? I took a few steps toward their porch. With my free hand, I picked up the little potted cactus at the end of the row. I felt naughty but excited. I wanted to take a piece of that house with me. My heart beat strong in my chest the whole way home. I placed the potted cactus on the bench on our back patio. I liked the patio. I remember playing jacks while Amy sunbathed. We loved it because Mom never went out there. She didn’t like hearing the neighbors or smelling their barbecues. I looked at the little cactus on the big wooden bench. It looked lonely.

In the following days, I took all kinds of potted plants from all over the neighborhood. I was on a mission. I took plants in pots, plants in vases, even plants in tin cans. I brought them all to the back patio bench. The little cactus was no longer lonely. In two weeks, I had over sixty potted plants, huddled together like a big happy family portrait. The plants became my silent companions, each leaf a whispered promise of life beyond the confines of our home.

Two weeks later, I arrived home from school. As soon as I put my key in the door, my mother flung it open. I was confronted with her wild eyes filled with rage. She grabbed me by the hair and pulled me through the house to the back patio. She insisted I explain where all the plants came from but wouldn’t let me speak. Evidently, the old lady next door asked my mother if I had taken up gardening because she saw me bringing plants into the house each day.

My mother suddenly got very quiet. When my mother got quiet, I got scared. Just as suddenly, she left the patio. I stood there and saw that my mother had broken each terra cotta planter and scattered every plant. I suspected she was getting the broom and a waste can for me to clean it all up. I heard Mom call me in. She told me to sit at the kitchen table. As I sat down, she came out of the bathroom with a pair of scissors and cut off all my hair. With each snip of the scissors, I felt a piece of myself falling away, the last remnants of childhood innocence scattered like strands of hair on the floor.

When Amy left, the house didn’t get quieter — it got louder. Louder with my mother’s footsteps, louder with the ache of no one left to protect me. I tried to shrink. To disappear. But when the world saw me anyway — when it laughed, humiliated, spit — I learned that even invisibility can’t save you.

CHAPTER FOUR

Twiggy

After Christmas vacation, it was time to return to school. I was terrified. The thought of walking into the classroom with little more than a crew cut was humiliating. I had managed to find one of my mother's scarves to hide my butchered hair. But Mom snatched it off my head, saying I should have thought of that before deciding to become a neighborhood thief.

“I've  got to get to work. I better not hear any more bad reports about you,” she said sternly. I wished I was dead or far, far away. I slipped on my shoes, the laces frayed and worn, much like my spirit. As I left the house, I glanced in the mirror, trying to find the courage that wasn't there.

The cold January wind whipped around the playground, rattling the bare branches of the oak trees. The school corridors smelled faintly of chalk dust and antiseptic, the echoes of children's laughter renders bittersweet. I could feel kids looking at me. They were either in shock at my lack of hair or didn't recognize me. I felt like a butterfly with clipped wings, exposed and vulnerable to the merciless stares of my classmates. Shame curled around me like a constrictor, squeezing the breath from my lungs. There was a lot of murmuring and whispering. My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Prestwich, was unlocking the classroom door as I approached. Mrs. Prestwich was in her thirties and new to the school. She was thin and wore a flip hairstyle like Marlo Thomas on That Girl. I thought she was beautiful. I loved her black cat-eye glasses with what I thought were diamonds in the corners. A small, chatty crowd came closer.

“Maria, can you help me take down the Christmas decorations? I think we have about twenty-five minutes until class.”

“Sure!” I said and bolted inside. The classroom was bright and cheery, adorned with colorful artwork and paper snowflakes that hung from the ceiling. But to me, it felt like a fishbowl, with prying eyes watching my every move. Mrs. Prestwich closed and locked the door behind me. She knelt down, looked me in the face, and smiled. She smelled like baby powder. I tugged at the collar of my tattered sweater, my fingers brushing the raw skin of my neck exposed to the chill air. My hair was cropped unevenly, a jagged reminder of the punishment. Mrs. Prestwich exuded warmth, her eyes were kind behind the glint of her cat-eye glasses. Her maroon cardigan enveloped her like a cozy hug, a comforting presence amidst the chaos of my mind.

There was a long silent moment. I started to cry. Mrs. Prestwich looked sad. She never asked me what happened to my hair or why.

With tears trailing down to my lips, I said, “My hair is too short!” She gently took me by the hand to the little sink on the other side of the room.

As Mrs. Prestwich guided my hand to the silver paper towel dispenser, her touch was gentle, her fingers a quiet promise of understanding and support.

“Well, I think you look groovy!” I was confused. I thought I looked like a boy.

“Hold on a sec. I want to show you something.” Mrs. Prestwich pulled a magazine out of her macrame bag. I recognized it as a Vogue fashion magazine. My mom often sent me to the store to get the latest copy.

She knelt down. “See, look! Right here!” she pointed to a big photo on its glossy page. “See? You look like Twiggy!” The woman in the picture was a beautiful fashion model. She was thin with very long lashes. The fabric of her triangle-shaped dress was covered with geometric shapes. She had knee-high silver boots and dangling silver sphere earrings.

And best of all, she had super short hair and she was beautiful.

Mrs. Prestwich wrapped a string of silver tinsel around my shoulders. She turned me around and we found our reflection in the silver paper towel dispenser.

“See, Maria? You’re beautiful!”

Her words were a lifeline tossed into the churning sea of my insecurities, her gentle assurance wrapping around me like a protective cloak. I clung to her kindness, a fragile raft amidst the storm.

But there was more cruelty to come.

“What made you decide to be a boy, Maria?”

“You look like a homeless person!”

Often, walking down the halls, I’d hear, “Hey, watch out!” as they stuck out a leg and tripped me. My books would fly forward and laughter would rain down on me.

I hated the cafeteria. Once a kid pulled my chair out from under me as I went to sit down, causing me to fall on my butt and hit my chin. Kids would throw empty milk cartons, french fries, and tater tots at my head. The cafeteria lady in charge pretended not to notice. But I saw her laugh along with those kids on more than one occasion. The cafeteria echoed with laughter that felt like shards of glass piercing my skin, the jeers wrapping around me like a suffocating shroud.

The worst was when the school day ended. The last bell would ring and I would make a mad dash home before they found me. A cold wind whispered through the playground, biting at my cheeks and swirling my breath in ghostly puffs. The gray sky hung low and heavy, mirroring the weight in my heart. But Frosty and her gang always found me. Frosty's real name was Ingrid. She was tiny with such light blonde hair it was almost white. But what she lacked in size, she made up for in bossiness. She was the head of her little gang of mean girls. The four other girls were misfits themselves, but being friends with the most popular girl in the fourth grade made them feel important. At nine years old, I didn’t know any of that.

I lived only three blocks from school. I heard them walking behind me, getting closer. There was nowhere for me to go. It was going to happen again. Frosty shoved me and sent me sprawling, my knees colliding with the unforgiving pavement. Pain radiated up my legs, a sharp reminder of my place in the world as a shoe kicked me in the head over and over. It always ended the same; being spit upon.

I could never tell Mom because she’d get annoyed. Her words cut deeper than any bully’s blow, each dismissal a brick in the wall between us growing wider everyday. The one solace I had was that Mom was always still at work when I came home. So, many days after getting beat up, I would hurry to unlock the back door, run in, and lock the door behind me. Deep breath. I would get a cold, wet rag for my swollen face, grab a slice of bologna, and sit on the floor in front of the television to watch my shows.

The Brady Bunch Dialing for Dollars The Art Linkletter Show

One night, toward the end of the school year, my mother came home and noticed my face was swollen on the right side.

“What’s wrong with you?” Mom looked closer at my face. “Your eye is almost swollen shut.”

I told her what often happened on my walks home from school. She rolled her eyes.

“What is wrong with you?” she asked again.

I started to tell her again when Mom said, “No. I mean what’s wrong with you? Why are you so weak? This is Amy’s fault. She never let you develop a thick skin.”

There were nights when I caught a glimpse of her staring out the window, her reflection in the glass a tapestry of unresolved anger and quiet desperation.

I called out to Amy in my mind.

A week later, I was sitting in a big leather chair in a psychiatrist’s office. Mom was hoping he could fix me. His name, oddly enough, was Dr. Frend. He looked to be in his early forties. His small frame was a bit lost in his tweed suit. He had a nice smile under a bushy brown mustache that took the edge off my anxiety.

“So why are you here?” he asked. I thought my mother would have told him.

I gazed down at my shoes and told him, “My Mom told me I was coming here to be fixed.”

“Do you think you need to be fixed?”

“I don’t know.” I looked up at him. “Will it hurt?”

I perched on the edge of the leather chair, my fingers tracing the worn seams as I willed my heart to slow its frantic pace. His smile was a beacon, a gentle invitation to step out from behind the walls I'd built around myself.

“Do you know what kind of doctor I am?” he asked.

“No. You fix people?”

“I am a doctor of secrets,” he explained. “People come here and tell me anything truthful about themselves, anything at all. As long as it’s truthful. This room is a safe, kind place to talk.”

“Why?” I asked.

He leaned over and took a butterscotch candy wrapped in yellow cellophane and handed it to me.

“Because it often helps people to feel better about things. That’s why. They can share what is in their heart and on their mind.”

That made sense to me. What should I tell him? Can I tell him even the scary stuff? Does Mom know I can tell him all that stuff?

I straightened myself in the big red leather chair.

“I can tell you why my hair is so short.”

“Sure. We can start there,” he said, leaning back in his brown leather chair.

So, I told him about all the plants and how that was why my Mom cut my hair. I told him about the mean kids at school and that I had no friends. I told him how scared I was walking home from school because of Frosty and her friends beating me up. Then I got very quiet and began to cry. I told Dr. Frend that most of all, I missed my sister Amy so much it felt like pain. I looked back down at my shoes.

“My Mom says I’m weak,” I said. When I was finished, it was quiet for a while. Dr. Frend handed me a tissue from the box on the coffee table between us.

“Maria, you’re not weak. In fact, after everything you’ve told me, I think you are very brave.”

I looked up at him. His eyes were sincere behind his spectacles.

“It’s not you,” he continued. “You’re fine. You just need to be listened to. You are a very special girl.”

I never saw Dr. Frend again. Mom said he was a quack. I didn’t know what that meant. But all I knew was that he was a nice man. He listened to me. His words lingered long after our meeting, a seed of hope planted in the fertile soil of my imagination, slowly taking root amidst the chaos.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mia

"You're going to camp this summer," Mom announced.

"Camp?" I asked. "What kind of camp?"

"It's a day camp. He suggested it would be good for you. I told him to forget it because I don't have that kind of money. So he paid for the whole summer out of his own pocket. What a fool."

I was excited.

The Bay Cities Community Center in Santa Monica served kids from six to fourteen. Mom said most of the kids had rich parents and went to private schools. I was twelve and had just finished a rough seventh grade. There was already so much going on with us at that age. We were growing into our teeth, our ears, and our feet. I was five foot seven inches by this time. I stood out like a gawky giraffe.

The night before the first day of camp, I had a hard time sleeping. My mind was racing. What should I wear? What should I say? What should I bring? What will the other kids be like? It dawned on me that this camp might be a good opportunity for a fresh start. None of these kids would know who I was. I could be anybody I wanted to be. Then it hit me. I could reinvent myself. I wanted a new name too. I turned on the lamp at my bedside table and grabbed a pencil and some scratch paper. I played around with the letters in my name: MARIA. I ended up with 'Mia'. I will be Mia! I loved the sound of it. Mia would be kind, confident, funny, bubbly, and smart. This was a persona I could really jump into. I would play the role.

As the camp bus pulled into the parking lot, I took a deep breath, savoring the scent of adventure in the air. The chatter of excited campers swirled around me, a chorus of possibilities waiting to be explored. The camp was nestled in a lush green valley, surrounded by towering pine trees that whispered secrets in the wind. The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and the distant hum of cicadas, the sound of summer. The days at this camp were filled with fun activities. The roller rink buzzed with energy as colorful lights danced across the floor. The thrill of skating filled me with exhilaration, the cool breeze in my hair making me feel free and alive. As Mia, I found out I was pretty good at it.

We went swimming, where I learned how to do water ballet and dive off the diving board. I dove into the pool, the water enveloping me in a refreshing embrace. As I surfaced, the sunlight sparkled on the waves, and laughter bubbled up from within me—a sound that felt as natural as breathing.

I loved going horseback riding, even though my horse stopped to poop. But we all had a good laugh over that. It felt good that even when the horse pooped, the other kids weren't laughing at me. They were laughing at the horse. We played games at the cookouts, and we would gather in groups by age and sing camp songs. As we gathered around the campfire, I shared stories and laughter with my new friends. Each word spoken was a thread weaving a tapestry of camaraderie. I felt part of something for the first time.

Two weeks into the camp session, we were traveling on the camp's big yellow bus to play miniature golf. A few girls were clamoring to sit next to me. They would ask me for advice, share secrets, jelly beans, and stories about their pets, parents, and siblings. I felt so filled up. I felt like a whole person. At first, I felt like a fraud, but now I was in a different part of myself that I didn't know existed. By the time the camp session ended, Mia had taken over. I owned her. Each day at camp was a step on the path to self-discovery, a journey of shedding old skin to reveal the strength and resilience beneath. I realized that Mia wasn't just a facade but a part of me I had always been capable of becoming.

Then I had to go back to school. This would be a test.

My saving grace was the realization I had the night before my first day back to school: Eighth grade. The prior semester, I was filled with trepidation, anticipating the worst at every moment, a walking target. This year, I was going into this den with more bravado. I had nothing to lose. I rifled through my wardrobe, choosing clothes that reflected Mia's spirit—bright and full of promise. With each brushstroke, I tamed my hair into submission, the mirror reflecting the anticipation in my eyes. I stood taller, my posture exuding confidence. My hair, sun-kissed and styled with care, framed a face that no longer bore the burden of fear. I wore clothes that made me feel vibrant, a reflection of the new identity I had embraced.

I was late getting to class. The school halls, once oppressive and echoing with the sound of taunts, now felt different. The fluorescent lights flickered above, casting shadows that seemed less daunting, as if Mia's presence had illuminated even the darkest corners.The school running track was a shortcut to the building where my worst class was. Coming my direction was Frosty. Today she was trying for a Barbie look but all she could manage was a pubescent Skipper. As Frosty got closer, I noticed she was uncharacteristically by herself. She always had an entourage. A knot of tension tightened in my stomach as Frosty approached, but Mia's strength surged within me. I felt a calm determination, a fire that had been kindled over the summer, ready to face whatever came my way.

I saw her differently that day. Frosty seemed somehow smaller, more vulnerable. As we started to pass one another, I realized she was going to walk right by me without giving me any trouble. Weirdly, I was offended. I wanted to test myself. Then she did it. She snorted that indignant kind of snort.

"Did you have something to say?" I asked her pointedly. I wasn't trying to start a fight. I was trying to see how I would hold up. I felt good. I felt strong and ready for anything. I had totally absorbed Mia into my being.

Frosty stuttered out, "You're a loser! Look at what you're wearing!"

I stood my ground, eyes locked with Frosty's, the air charged with a tension that crackled like static electricity. Words flowed from me with a clarity I had never known, each syllable a declaration of my strength and resolve.

"I've got to get to class," I said dismissively.

"Fine!" she protested, yet she looked a bit intimidated.

I told her, "Listen, Ingrid, don't give me any crap! If you or your girls come after me either at school or after school anymore, I'm going to take care of each and every one of you." Of course, I was bluffing.

"Fine!" Frosty said, looking away. Her school books slipped from her arm down onto the wet grass. I attempted to help her pick them up, but she backed away from me and put her arms up to protect her face. The same response I had each day to her and her crew. The tables had truly turned.

Did I always have this power to step up for myself and just never knew it?

"You leave me alone!" she shouted in tears and ran off without her books. For the first time, I saw her as more than a tormentor—a girl caught in the struggle for identity, much like myself.

Then it happened. From the three-story building alongside the running track, I heard murmuring and then a singular ovation! I looked up along the rows of windows and saw a sea of shadowy faces. The solo clapping became two and then ten and then most of the building! It was spectacular!

In the days and weeks afterward, many told me that Frosty and her ilk were picking on them too. Frosty and her kind never bothered me again.

Mia had taught me how to pretend. How to wear confidence like a costume and survive the day. But I still didn’t know who I was underneath it all. And then, just as I was beginning to believe I could make something new of myself — Amy came back into my life. And for a moment, the sky cracked open.

CHAPTER SIX

Buckle Up

The next time I saw Amy was during the happiest days of her life. It was 1973. I was thirteen, and Amy was twenty-two. I went to visit her in Inverness, a place in northern California about 30 miles northwest of San Francisco. Amy's cabin nestled among towering redwoods and lush ferns, a hidden sanctuary where sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting dappled patterns on the ground. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the distant sound of a babbling brook added to the serene atmosphere. I hadn't seen her in almost a decade. A thrill of excitement coursed through me, mingling with a sense of newfound freedom. The anticipation of adventure made my heart race, and the nostalgia of seeing Amy after so long filled me with a joy.

As she pulled up in the battered 1963 Porsche, a relic of bygone adventures, Amy's familiar grin reassured me that despite the years and distance, our bond remained unbroken. “Hey, kiddo,” she greeted me, her voice warm and welcoming. “Ready for the best summer of your life?” Her raven hair cascaded in untamed waves, framing a bronze face that glowed, kissed by the sun. Her eyes, a deep shade of hazel, sparkled with a mischievous glint behind her aviator sunglasses. She lifted her aviator sunglasses and smiled that sideways Amy smile. "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to get in?"

I could barely hear over the engine, but when she swung open the passenger door, I knew an invite when I saw one. Off we went on highways, byways, and freeways. Amy's disdain for the city was palpable. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the smog, her fingers drumming impatiently on the steering wheel. “This place is a concrete jungle,” she muttered, a shadow of her former rebellious self flickering in her eyes. “Out there, beyond the chaos, that's where life truly begins.” The whole way, she complained about the smog, the people, and the rat race. Amy's voice brimmed with pride as she spoke of her unconventional life. “I ditched the rat race,” she declared, her eyes gleaming with defiance. “Making jewelry in my cabin, living off the land – it's freedom, pure and simple. No one to answer to, no one to control me.” As we got farther from the congestion, she became more relaxed, playful, even happy. I hadn't seen her that happy since I was very small.

We made our way through Inverness, passing its one stoplight. From there, we glided past the west shore, then wound our way through the hills. The landscape grew progressively lush, the foliage enveloping us in a vibrant embrace. The air became cool and moist, each breath infused with the earthy aroma of the forest. Tiny droplets of mist settled on my skin, refreshing and invigorating, as if the forest itself welcomed us.

That night, she took me to her favorite watering hole. The bar buzzed with laughter and the clinking of glasses, a warm glow emanating from its wooden interior. As Amy sauntered in, heads turned, and conversations paused, captivated by her magnetic presence. She greeted everyone with a playful wink and a quick quip, seamlessly blending into the lively crowd. They didn't seem to notice or care that I was only thirteen. Wearing a tube top and worn-out jeans, Amy walked inside and lifted everyone's head. It seemed that someone turned up the lights, but it was her.

"Are you going to give me a chance to win my money back?" laughed a very large man with a pool stick.

"No way!" Amy smiled. "I don't need any more money from you, Ted."

For a moment, she was absorbed into a small crowd. I stood there, then she came and grabbed my hand and introduced me. They were very nice. I couldn't be further from home. It was another first; the first time I felt unconditionally accepted.

We left the bar and hopped into the car. She lit up one of her Canadian "Export A" cigarettes and turned to me. Amy took a drag of her cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke into the night air. “Listen, Kiddo,” she began, her tone softening. “The world's vast, and it's loaded with possibilities you've yet to imagine. But don't rush it. Childhood's fleeting, and there's beauty in every moment. You have all the time in the world to carve your own path. There's time.” She stopped and looked at me. “Hey, I'm sorry I left you with Mom.”

"No, that's okay. I—"

"No. Really. I am sorry. We just have today. I want you to know there's a whole world out here. My way won't be your way. But I can't wait to see what you do! Now buckle up!"

She started the engine, and in its loudness, I wondered if she meant get ready for the car ride or get ready for life.

I couldn't wait to see what was in store for me when I turned fourteen.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leaving the Thorny Nest

I met Duane the summer between our sophomore and junior years. This was the only thing we had in common. Duane was an enigma, his quiet demeanor and intense gaze suggesting a mind constantly at work. His dark, brooding eyes seemed to hold a thousand secrets, and his chiseled features gave him a statuesque presence that commanded attention without a word. He was mysterious. He complimented my daddy issues quite nicely.

Duane was my first boyfriend, the first male presence in my life. To me, he was a mix of hero and mystery, someone who made my heart race with both excitement and anxiety. Being with him felt like stepping into an adult world I wasn't quite ready for, yet desperately wanted to belong to. All I knew at the time was that it felt fun and grown-up to call him my boyfriend. However, I felt as if I needed a manual on how to be a girlfriend. But until then, I thought of him as my rescuer. We met at a Pizza Hut, introduced by mutual friends over a shared pitcher of soda and greasy slices of pepperoni pizza. His quiet confidence intrigued me, and as our friends' laughter filled the room, we found ourselves in a world of our own, exchanging shy glances and tentative smiles.

The second most exciting thing about Duane, beyond him being my boyfriend/rescuer, was that he had a car. His avocado green 1973 Dodge Dart, with its retro corners and chrome accents, was a rolling relic. The faded paint and occasional rust spots only added to its character, making it a symbol of our youthful escapades and secret rendezvous. This car was instrumental in cultivating our relationship. The car would often come take me away from home like a fireman saving a damsel from a burning building. The car would transport us to new places and experiences. And of course, that Dodge Dart gave us two hormone-driven teens the privacy to get to know each other and have sex. The months flew by in a whirlwind of stolen moments and secret plans. One warm summer night, as we sat in the Dodge Dart under a canopy of stars, I finally told Duane the news that would change everything.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, lost in a fairytale gaze.

He pulled away. “I was just about to break up with you tonight. And now you're telling me this?”

My heart sank as his words shattered my fairytale. Confusion and fear gripped me as I struggled to understand why he wasn't happy. In my mind, this moment was supposed to be joyful, a new chapter for us. Instead, it felt like everything was falling apart. When I imagined this moment, he was thrilled!

“Why were you going to break up with me?” I said, crying.

“It doesn't matter now. I have to marry you now.”

Is that a proposal or a rejection?

Duane reached over me and opened my door. “Well, you're home. You can get out now. Maybe I'll call you tomorrow.”

I just stared at him. Finally, I got out of the car. Before I could get both feet onto the sidewalk, the sound of the car's tires screeching around the corner echoed in the night. I was left standing there, my heart pounding and tears welling up, feeling more alone than ever.I never liked the car much after that.

I hadn't heard from him for a few days. I was hoping he would stop being mad at me. Meanwhile, I avoided Mom at all costs. If she found out I was pregnant, she would emotionally end me. I remembered Duane talking about how his older brother got a girl pregnant, and she had an abortion, got her pregnant again, and ran off with the baby—his words, not mine. His parents were so upset about being cheated out of a grandchild not once but twice. They made Duane promise to never get a girl pregnant before marriage and if he ever did, to marry her so she wouldn't run off with the baby.

Four months later, I was upstairs packing up my life to start another life as a married woman. The adrenaline surging through my body as I stuffed duffel bags and backpacks felt like a mix of fear and excitement.

I heard her keys in the door before I saw her. That sharp clink, the pause — the moment when her shadow landed in the room a few steps ahead of her body. My heart tightened, the way it always did, like it had been trained to brace for impact since I was old enough to flinch.

She stepped inside, eyes sweeping the room, landing on me with a sneer.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at school,” she barked, narrowing her eyes.
She didn’t even wait for my answer, already launching into her next jab.
“You’re not here to get more lunch, are you? You’re getting fat! Look at you.”

For a moment, I wanted to shrink, to disappear under her words like I had a hundred times before — the little girl with the too-short hair, the too-loud laugh, the too-soft heart.

But something shifted.

I smoothed a hand over the oversized sweatshirt stretched across my stomach. My stomach — my baby. My baby inside me. My life curling, forming, waiting to be born.

I looked her dead in the eye and smiled, the kind of smile she never knew how to read.
“Oh, Mom, I’m not fat. I’m pregnant. There’s a big difference there.”

The air snapped like a rubber band between us.
For the first time, I saw her falter, just for a split second. I saw the shock crawl up her face, then melt into fury, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“I’m not here for your emotional scraps,” I said softly.
“I’m not here for your punishments, your guilt, your approval. I’m leaving.”

Her hands trembled on her hips. “What? You—? You can’t—”
I tilted my head, a little amused, a little heartbroken.
“My husband’s waiting outside. I’m leaving, Mom. Today.”

Her words came fast, sharp, like broken glass tossed in the air.
“You’re just like the rest of them! First your father, then Amy, now you! You all run away, you all—”

I paused at the door, my hand on the knob.
I turned back, steady.
“Have you ever wondered, Mom, what we all had in common? Dad, Amy, me?”
She blinked, her mouth half-open.
“We all had you.”

I stepped through the door, the weight of seventeen years pressing against my back — and then, with each step away, something lifted.

The sun hit my face outside, the light slicing through the shade. I blinked against it, feeling the strange, painful sweetness of freedom: raw, fragile, terrifying, electric.

I slid into the passenger seat of the waiting car, closed the door, and told myself not to look back.

But I did.
Just once.
Just long enough to see the front door slam shut behind me.

“You're just like all the others! First your father, then your sister, and now you! You're all worthless and wasted a ton of my time. You all run away from everything!” she yelled at my back.

I paused, turned around, and said calmly and deliberately, “Look at this logically for a moment. What did we all have in common, Mom? Dad, Amy, and I? You know what we all had in common? You.” At that, I turned around and pushed myself and my packed-up life out the front door and into the Dodge Dart. I told myself not to look back, but I did just to see the front door slam shut. By Valentine's Day of 1978, I was on the Queen Mary in my wedding dress that beautifully draped over my six-month baby bump.

My daughters were born roughly sixteen months apart. It was surreal. I had no idea what I was doing and had no one to ask. Duane's parents never warmed up to me. Besides burying myself in Dr. Spock's Baby Care book, I was winging it. I was in fear all the time of being a horrible mom. Duane was no help at all. What started out as laughing at my being overwhelmed quickly escalated to cruel criticism. He couldn't understand why motherhood didn't come naturally to me. I had been with this man since I was seventeen years old. Because I came from a chaotic childhood with a lot of abuse and neglect, I naively assigned him the role of the one who would take care of me. I wanted to be cared for. I grew reliant on him to make decisions. I’d ask to go to the store or to take the girls to the park, things any other self-determining adult would do on their own.

My fear would ebb and flow. There were times when I knew in real-time that the moments were precious with them. I felt that I had another layer to myself that was truly meaningful. I would constantly look into their little faces in disbelief that they were a part of me. My oldest was Laurali, always the more adventurous, and the younger was Maureen, who seemed from birth reflective in a Zen sort of way. I felt blessed. I would grow to believe that I didn't deserve them.

Duane grew more angry and impatient with me each day. Dinner wasn't made quick enough or it wasn't made right. I couldn't keep the girls quiet, or bathing them took too long in the bathroom. I was so tense that I was no longer able to produce breast milk for Maureen. Within the next two years, I became so riddled with self-doubt that I could barely function. Duane would start taking the girls to his parents for the day while he went to work. I sat at home, full of shame. A failure.

I began to feel myself disappear. Who was I in this marriage? Who was I to be a mother to two precious little girls? By the time my girls were toddlers, I had a nervous breakdown and left. I left because I understood I was not able to care for them. Until the moment I made the decision to leave, I didn’t realize how precariously dangerous my own mental health had become, and I worried that if my children witnessed me completely and utterly falling apart, it would cause more harm. Of course, their mother leaving them left devastating damage behind—a self-fulfilling prophecy.

I left my mother’s house thinking I was done being hurt. That I had outrun the cycle. But cycles don’t care about age or wedding rings. Trauma doesn’t disappear when you become a mother — it just waits for the quiet moments, when you’re too tired to fight it. And then it begins again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Discarded

I stood on the front porch, my hands trembling in the afternoon light, feeling the weight of the world press down on my shoulders. The house in front of me — the house where they now lived, where they now belonged — looked ordinary, even peaceful. Chipped paint, a sagging lawn chair, the faint smell of dinner drifting through the window. But to me, it was a fortress. One I no longer had the right to enter.

I rocked slightly on my heels, arms crossed tightly, waiting. Always waiting.

The door opened, and for one sweet, golden moment, they were there — my girls.
Laurali’s wide grin, Maureen’s shy little wave.
They ran to me, arms outstretched, laughter bubbling up like it hadn’t been crushed yet by the weight of adult sorrow.

We went to McDonald’s, and for a couple of hours, it was as if nothing had ever gone wrong. Laurali fed her french fries to the pigeons; Maureen took ten whole minutes to decide between the Filet-O-Fish or the cheeseburger. I laughed with them, kissed the tops of their heads, memorized the smell of their hair, the softness of their little hands, the sound of their giggles like wind chimes in my chest.

At the park, I pushed them on the swings, watched their legs pump the air like they could lift off, like they could fly.

And for a flicker of a moment, I was not the mother who had left.
I was just Mommy. Just their Mommy.

But the sun dipped lower, and the shadows stretched long, and I knew — I always knew — our time was slipping through my fingers.

We walked back toward the house, and with each step, my heart grew heavier.

I reached the porch, bent down, kissed them both. “I love you, baby. I love you, baby.”
They clung to me, and I clung back, pressing their little bodies into mine, trying to remember how they felt, how they fit in my arms, as if I could stitch the memory into my bones.

Then — the door opened.

She stood there.
The new wife.

Without a word, she reached for them.
In a flash, the girls were pulled inside, the door slammed shut.

And just like that, they were gone.

Through the thin walls, I heard it:
“Mommy! Mommy!”
Their small voices, their cries, muffled but sharp enough to cut through me.

I crumpled on the porch, my breath caught in my throat, a soundless sob shaking my chest.
I pressed my palms to the wooden boards, trying to hold onto something, anything, as the last pieces of myself — the best pieces — were locked away behind that door.

I wanted to knock. I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash the window and pull them back to me.
But I didn’t.

I stood up, shaky, wiped my face, and walked down the steps, each footfall heavier than the last.

As I reached the street, I realized I didn’t even know where I was going.
I only knew I was walking away from the only two things in my life I had ever truly wanted to do right.

The years slipped by like fog, blurring the edges of time, leaving me with only the sharp, sudden stabs: birthdays I wasn’t invited to, holidays I spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if they even remembered the sound of my voice.

I told myself I would call.
I told myself I would fight.
I told myself I would try.

But every time, the weight settled on my chest like a stone. Who was I to disrupt their lives now? What if I was just a ghost haunting their new home, stirring up pain they’d worked hard to bury?

I folded in on myself.
I let the months pile into years.

Every missed opportunity replayed in my mind like a cracked film reel:
The night Laurali cried at the door.
The way Maureen clung to my neck, her small fingers tangling in my hair.
The slam of that door, the silence that followed.

I told myself I wasn’t strong enough, that I didn’t deserve to ask for them back.
But the truth was — no one tells you what to do when you’ve shattered. There’s no handbook for a mother who loves her children but has broken herself so badly she’s afraid her love will only harm them.

I wandered through those years like a half-person.
On the outside, I moved through jobs, through apartments, through places where no one knew my past.
But inside, I carried a hollow space the exact shape of two little girls’ laughter.

Every once in a while, I caught myself calling their names in my sleep — Laurali, Maureen — and I would wake up gasping, clutching the pillow like it could pull me back in time.

Sometimes I wondered if they had a box somewhere, tucked in a closet, filled with the small things I had once given them — a hair ribbon, a book, a silly card. Did they open it sometimes? Did they remember me fondly, or did they lock those memories away, like I had been told to lock myself away?

There were moments when the grief turned into a quiet, simmering rage. Rage at myself. Rage at the world. Rage at how easily a woman can fall through the cracks when no one is there to reach a hand back for her.

But even in the rage, even in the guilt, there was always — always — the whisper:
You’re not done.

Somewhere in me, a voice stirred.
Maybe Amy’s.
Maybe my own.

You’re not done yet, kid.

Years passed without any connection with my daughters. Every missed opportunity replayed in my mind like a relentless film reel, each scene a dagger to the same unhealing wound. My ex and his wife moved over fifty miles away. I was living a chaotic life and never had the courage to fight for visitations. If I were to be honest, I felt I didn't deserve them and did not want to risk either having a negative impact on their lives or being rejected. I was a coward. Of course, a mother abandoning you as a child has an extraordinary negative impact on any human. I know that because I was impacted by my father's absence.

Walter Scott Herndon, I had assumed, was the anti-social type. Even though he left when I was a year old, I didn't start thinking much about him. I got used to the void he left behind as something that was normal. I had always heard about my father's “creative genius.” Walter Scott Herndon’s absence loomed over my life like a shadow, his so-called creative genius a hollow consolation for a daughter left behind. My mother would tell me that men like him could not be good fathers because the art would always come first. This was my mother’s theory, and it made sense to me. It kept away any anger because he obviously had a higher calling. To me, it was as if I were sharing him with the rest of the world.

My father was recognized in the motion picture and television industry as one of the top art directors in film and television. Growing up, I didn't know about all that. I only knew that he was in the business “out there somewhere.”

I didn’t know Walter Scott Herndon. Shortly after his death, his last movie “A Soldier’s Story” was released.

Sitting in that dark theater, watching ‘A Soldier’s Story,’ I tried to piece together the fragments of my father’s mind, desperate for a connection that had always eluded me. I drank in all the visuals. He had been in charge of both the indoor and outdoor sets, as well as all the lighting. Basically, he created a portion of the look of the film as he did in most of his films. I sat in the dark theater thinking that this is as close to him as I’ll ever get. Seeing the results of his work at least helped me feel a connection to his thinking, his creating. I was grateful for that.

Losing them — Laurali, Maureen — it felt like losing gravity. Like walking through life untethered, afraid to touch anything in case it shattered. I spent years living in the in-between. Not fully gone, but not fully present. And then, Venice called to me. Not with answers — but with space.

CHAPTER NINE

Picking Up Broken Glass

Through the homeless shelter's job program, I landed a job at General Telephone as a repair operator. The office was a bustling hive of activity, with the constant hum of conversations and the clacking of keyboards filling the air. In four weeks, I earned enough to move out of the shelter, a milestone that felt like stepping into a new life. I made friends working there. Socialization was new to me. It felt like unearthing a part of myself that had been buried for years. Each friendly exchange, each shared laugh, was a small step toward reclaiming my identity, toward feeling like a person again.

A lady who took calls in the cubicle next to me with her easy smile and kind eyes, handed me her landlord's phone number one day. Her gesture was a lifeline, pulling me further from the isolation of my past. She heard there was a vacancy in the building. It was in Venice Beach. I was stunned. Venice Beach had a sweet vibe in 1980, a bohemian spirit that seemed to dance in the air. The boardwalk was a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, with artists and leftover hippies selling their wares, the scent of musk and patchouli mingling with the salty ocean breeze. It was a sensory feast, a place where every corner held a new discovery. I couldn't believe my luck finding a little single apartment a block from the ocean at 51 Rose Avenue. From Rose to Windward Avenue was my world. At twenty years old, I had my own place for the first time in my life. This was consequential.

Venice Beach smelled like musk, patchouli, salt, and possibility.

I breathed it in greedily, like someone starving, like someone who didn’t know if they were allowed to want more but reached for it anyway.

The boardwalk pulsed with life — barefoot drummers pounding out rhythms that vibrated up through the soles of my shoes, leftover hippies with weathered faces selling crystals and incense, kids on skateboards carving wild, glorious arcs into the air.

I walked alone, one block from the ocean, feeling the pulse of this strange, beautiful place wrap around me like a loose, tattered cloak.

My apartment at 51 Rose Avenue was small — no, tiny — cinderblock walls, a hot plate, a bed crammed into one corner, and a window that looked out onto a sliver of sky. But it was mine. Mine. For the first time, I had a space that no one else could enter unless I invited them.

Some days, I sat at that window for hours, the breeze curling in, carrying the scent of seaweed and fried fish and weed. I watched the gulls wheel and dive, and I thought: This is what freedom smells like.

But even freedom has its ghosts.

Some nights, when the street musicians played under the streetlights and laughter spilled from the bars, I’d curl into myself and think of Laurali, of Maureen.
Did they know I was here? Did they ever walk along the beach, wondering if the woman sitting cross-legged on the sand, staring at the waves, was their mother?

I joined the little gatherings — the musicians behind the open guitar cases, the dreamers singing Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young songs under the stars. My voice was shy at first, then stronger, then woven into the harmonies like it had always been there, waiting.

I met the Rastafarian next door. He was gentle, his laughter soft, his kindness steady. We’d sit for hours, the smell of smoke curling between us, talking about everything and nothing. He never asked for my past. He just let me be here. Let me be.

Venice gave me that.
It gave me a place where guilt and grace could sit side by side, like two mismatched chairs at a beach bonfire.
It gave me space to remember who I was, or maybe — to become someone I had never dared to be before.

There were still days the tide of shame pulled me under. Still nights I woke up gasping, arms aching for the children I’d lost, the self I’d abandoned.

But I kept walking the boardwalk.
I kept singing.
I kept breathing in the sea air, one slow, stubborn inhale at a time.

And somehow, I began to believe:
Maybe I wasn’t done yet.

A few years later, I found myself alone and pregnant. Although I knew it wasn't ideal, I was thrilled to go forward with the pregnancy. The prospect of a new life filled me with a fierce determination to do motherhood right this time. Although I knew it wasn't ideal, I told myself, this time I'm going to do motherhood right. I had met the baby's father in my admittedly wild days in Venice. I think that I was trying to fill the void of the children I lost to my ex-husband and his wife. I had to leave Venice to make this work.

My apartment had cinder block walls—like living in a parking structure. It had a hot plate, and the shared bathroom and shower were down the hallway of the building. But these inconveniences were minor compared to the overwhelming joy and responsibility of preparing for my baby. But nothing put a damper on the fact that I was given another chance to mother a child of mine and as a result, mother myself as well.

Anthony was born a month shy of my twenty-fifth birthday. He was very plump and extremely fair-skinned. He would smile at me as I sang to him. I did have some worries, of course: How will I be able to support him? How can I be a good example for him? How do I teach him about being a man? But we made it. It was a struggle of love. I showed him how to persevere. I did it on my own.

We moved around a bit until I found a roommate situation. It was a large home of a lady that rented out three rooms. One room was rented to a hippie-dippy girl that was a yoga instructor, another room to an artist that was a potter by trade, and my son and I got the largest of the three rooms. We all had kitchen, laundry, and bathroom privileges. The people there were very nice, and we all got along very well. We would often gather in the large living room and watch TV, tell jokes, eat our meals, or just hang out. The lady that was our landlord was very happy because she had been very lonely since her husband died. My son Anthony was about four years old at the time and loved being the center of attention. Bryan, the artist, and I would find ourselves talking until all hours of the morning. Bryan would show me his art, and I found out that his works were very popular in the area. He would undercharge people because he felt everyone should be able to have and experience artwork. He was so sweet and patient with Anthony. I started to fall for him. That scared me because my track record with men was abysmal. But the pull was so strong. The creative open-minded male was intoxicating. He didn't have that alpha-male thing that was so oppressive. He loved to listen. He thought I was fascinating! Loving Bryan was like touching a flame I knew might burn me — but I was drawn anyway. Maybe because he was gentle, maybe because he was creative, maybe because somewhere deep inside, I still believed that if I poured enough love into someone, we could both heal. I didn’t yet know that some fires consume no matter how softly you approach them.

Bryan, my son, and I moved into an apartment together, and in less than three years, I had two more sons: Clay and Sammy. We tried hard to make things work for the next year. Bryan was a hard-working man in a very tough business. He was an honest man except with himself. He was a good father in his heart. However, his alcoholism ruined all of it. Bryan went from just drinking at his studio and coming home drunk to drinking from the time he woke up until he passed out at night. The bills were not being paid, and we regularly had to go to the food bank to keep us fed.

The alcoholism was hard enough. Yet it wasn't as hard as what happened to him next. In 1995, Bryan was diagnosed as schizophrenic. He heard voices continuously. He didn't recognize them as voices in his head but instead experienced them as secret spies sending signals to him, using him as a lab rat to test minds for a future government. My heart broke for this broken man. I knew who he was under all of it. But it didn't matter. Watching Bryan unravel, watching the man I loved lose himself to voices and ghosts, was a cruel mirror. It showed me the fine edge we all balance on — between holding on and letting go, between saving someone and saving yourself. And this time, I had to choose myself. I had to be strong and do what was right for these boys. I had to kick him out.

He agreed to go live in his studio.

I managed to talk a few of the venues that had Bryan's pottery and other artworks on commission into giving me an advance so I could pay the rent and bills until I had a plan for me and the boys to move forward. “You're the strong one,” he said. “Take good care of my boys.” Yes. I was strong.

Days and weeks went by. Some were wonderful. The summer days, we were always out in the yard playing hide and seek, sliding on the Slip N' Slide, or building a fort.The tire swing tied to a tree with thick rope became a symbol of our resilience, a simple contraption that brought endless joy and a sense of normalcy to our lives. I was so hoping that it would build happy childhood memories for them. Was I a good mom yet?

Other days were more challenging. Anthony, although very popular in the neighborhood, had an identity issue. I knew this was normal for being twelve. Twelve can be awkward. It so happened that most of his friends were black, and he would look in the mirror and criticize his very fair skin and red hair. It was hard for him. But all his friends enjoyed him so much, and none of them ever even pointed out or teased him about looking different. But I still had that question I had right after he was born, a question pertaining to all my sons: How will I be able to support them? How can I be a good example for them? How do I teach them about being a man?

Admittedly, I would feel a bit overwhelmed at times. We used a shopping cart to go two miles to and from the market and also to go three miles to and from the laundromat every week. Sammy, my youngest son, would be in the little seat, and Anthony and Clay in tow alongside. One day in particular, we were coming back from the laundromat, pushing the cart down the same sidewalk we've taken for years.

As I passed by the collection of three older homes that were put together into a triplex, I noticed the same family lived in all three homes. The grandparents sat out on their porch, watching their grandchildren play. This sight, a stark contrast to my own fragmented family, made me silently cry the rest of the way home. I silently cried the rest of the way home.

As I folded and put away the laundry, I grabbed an old duffel bag from the closet in which to put all the extra socks. I realized the side pocket was zipped closed. I opened it and pulled out the framed eighth-grade portrait of Amy. I held her to my chest and lay down, aching for her.

As I folded and put away the laundry, I grabbed an old duffel bag from the closet in which to put all the extra socks. I realized the side pocket was zipped closed. I opened it and pulled out the framed eighth-grade portrait of Amy. I held her to my chest and lay in a fetal position, aching for her. Amy, what shall I do? What would Amy do?

The next day, the boys and I went to the local career center and signed up for a career aptitude test and avenues for childcare. I was very determined, and as a result, I found a job at a call center that paid a lot more than I expected and some quality childcare that was just around the corner from me. Things were starting to happen. We were going to be okay. We lived two blocks from the Santa Monica Community College. I passed by it all the time. I would see the busy young students and felt like I had missed out on something special. I got the courage to go on campus to just get a catalog of classes. I studied it until the enrollment date started for the next semester. It ended up that I loved to learn for learning's sake. It was like generating special powers. I was proud of myself. I am showing my sons that if I can conquer all these challenges, there is nothing they can't do.

Venice gave me the room to breathe, but it couldn’t fill the space inside me that still ached to nurture. When Anthony came into my life, it wasn’t just about becoming a mother again — it was about learning how to mother myself. How to cradle the broken pieces, the shaky hope, and tell myself: you get another chance.

CHAPTER TEN

The Miracle That Is Marc

In the dimly lit karaoke bar, my first sight of Marc was his rear end. He was leaning on one of the tale cocktail tables talking to a friend of mine. As I approached them, he turned around and I was hit with his sparkling eyes and unassuming nature. The karaoke bar was a chaotic mix of flashing neon lights, off-key renditions of classic hits, and the smell of cheap beer. Amidst the cacophony, Marc's calm demeanor felt like a lifeline in a stormy sea. After years of unhealthy, dysfunctional, and sometimes abusive relationships, I finally met a healthy, wonderful, secure man at a karaoke bar of all places. Marc didn't sing much like the rest of us did, but he was remarkably supportive.

When I first started seeing this sweet unicorn, I cycled through everything from fear and avoidance, excitement and giddiness, to, finally, certainty and knowing. His care and consideration were like balm to my wounded heart, soothing scars I hadn't realized were still raw. If I hadn’t experienced it firsthand, I almost wouldn’t have believed it was real. The thing is, when your central nervous system has become accustomed to unstable, insecure relationships, you stop associating love with what is good for you and instead associate it with what feels familiar.

As with Mom, I spent so much energy in that relationship trying to create a life for him that wouldn’t upset him, but always failing.

Fast forward years later to Marc. We were on our way back from dinner when the car overheated again. We stopped at a gas station, and within a relatively short time, all was solved.

When I thanked Marc for not yelling at me, his puzzled expression and gentle response were eye-opening. “Why on earth would I have yelled at you?” he asked, genuinely confused. It was in that moment I realized how deeply ingrained my fear and expectations of anger had become.The more positive experiences like this one helped me set a new bar for my relationships.

With my history of being in unhealthy relationships, I often struggled with trusting myself. I felt conned, duped, and just plain dumb because I stayed with unhealthy partners after I discovered they were extremely flawed. Soon after my relationship with Marc started, I’d find myself obsessively looking for red flags that I thought were there somewhere.

Were they actually? No.

Marc isn’t perfect, by any means. He did have some “red flags” that turned out not to be deal breakers because we all have them. My big red flag was clearly that I had more work to do on myself. Overall, Marc’s presence in my life was like a tender gardener nurturing a neglected plant. Under his care, I began to flourish, my leaves unfurling, reaching toward the light. I still make typical relationship mistakes. Through it all, we stick together.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Wedding

My son's wedding reception in September of 2017 is a day burned beautifully into my brain. It was held at a grand vintage Victorian home surrounded majestically with sprawling gardens teeming with vibrant flowers in the September heat. The intricate architecture, with its ornate carvings and towering spires, created a fairytale backdrop that felt almost surreal. The theme colors—white, turquoise, and soft purple—were meticulously woven into every detail. From the elegant table settings adorned with lavender sprigs to the cascading floral arrangements, the entire setting exuded charm and romance. My son Anthony was marrying Emmanuelle, a remarkable Haitian American woman whose intelligence, beauty, and talent brought out the very best in him. Anthony was madly in love with her, and it was evident that she challenged him in only the best of way.

As Marc and I looked around, we saw the faces of family and friends who had come to celebrate this joyous occasion. My other sons, Clay and Sammy, were there, as were my daughters, Laurali and Maureen. Their presence was especially significant to me, even though they kept their distance, about twenty yards away. Laurali’s olive complexion and raven hair framed a radiant smile. Maureen, with her blond hair flowing as she danced, looked equally enchanting. I knew to give them space, yet I remained approachable, hoping they might want to reconnect. Marc, ever the supportive partner, held my hand as we navigated the celebration. His gentle squeezes were silent reassurances, grounding me in the present moment.

Seeing Anthony so happy and everyone at the wedding expressing their admiration for him and his bride filled me with immense pride. As day turned into evening and the string of white lights began to twinkle, I couldn’t help but watch my girls. They were eating, laughing, and dancing, fully immersed in the joy of the moment. Although they chose not to interact with me, I felt a pang of sadness for what could have been. This was not the first time I grieved the relationship with Laurali and Maureen, and I knew it would not be the last.

Over the years, my internal construct had changed. At fifty-seven, I no longer felt inclined to shame myself for the past. Watching my daughters that night, I smiled and respected their decision not to know me. I had deserted them, and that was unconscionable. The impact of my actions on their lives was likely profound and varied. Yet, the significant difference now was that I had forgiven myself.

Forgiveness had not come easily. It was a journey marked by introspection and a deep understanding of my flaws and failures. As I stood there, witnessing the celebration and my daughters' happiness from a distance, I felt a sense of peace. I realized that forgiveness, both given and received, was a crucial part of healing. My love for them is forever and unconditional.

As the evening progressed, the music played softly, and the atmosphere grew more intimate under the canopy of stars and lights. I moved through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and heartfelt congratulations with family and friends. The reception was a symphony of joyful sounds—the clinking of glasses, the soft hum of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter. The atmosphere was electric with celebration, every corner of the garden filled with love and happiness. Anthony and Emmanuelle shared their first dance as husband and wife, a moment so tender and filled with love that it brought me to tears. I could see the future they would build together, one based on mutual respect and deep affection.

As I stood there at the wedding reception, the soft glow of the lights casting a warm glow over the gathering, I was filled with a profound sense of reflection. The joyous celebration around me contrasted sharply with the tumultuous journey that had brought me to this moment. I watched my son, Anthony, and his beautiful bride, Emmanuelle, dance with a grace and love that filled me with immense pride. Their happiness was a beacon, a testament to resilience and the power of love.

I thought back to my own journey, one marked by hardship, regret, and moments of deep self-doubt. The path wasn't easy, but it was mine, and every step, no matter how painful, had led me here. I had learned so much along the way. Life had taught me the importance of forgiveness, both of others and of myself. It was a hard-won lesson, one that took years of grappling with my own demons to truly understand. Carrying guilt for so long was like dragging a heavy chain, but in forgiving myself, I found a sense of peace that had been missing for so long.

Strength, I realized, comes in many forms. It wasn’t just about surviving the hardships but also about having the courage to change, to seek help when needed, and to embrace the parts of myself that I once tried to hide. Vulnerability, once seen as a weakness, had become a source of strength. It allowed me to connect with others on a deeper level, to build genuine relationships based on honesty and compassion.

My daughters, Laurali and Maureen, were there that night. They remained at a distance, a painful reminder of the consequences of my past actions. Their choice to keep their distance stung, but I respected it. I held onto the hope that someday they might be willing to open a door to reconciliation. Until then, I cherished the moments when I could witness their happiness, even from afar. Their laughter, their smiles, were enough for now.

Marc and my sons, Anthony, Clay, and Sammy, had been my anchors. Their love and acceptance gave me the strength to keep moving forward. Seeing Anthony marry the love of his life was a testament to the resilience and capacity for love that existed within our family, despite the fractures and the scars.

As the night deepened, I stood under the canopy of twinkling lights, watching Anthony and Emmanuelle share a tender moment on the dance floor. It was a beautiful scene, filled with promise and new beginnings. Despite all the pain and struggle, I realized how far I had come. My journey wasn’t perfect, and there were still many miles to go, but I had learned to appreciate the progress I had made and the person I had become.

This story was one of redemption and resilience. It reminded me that no matter how dark the night, there is always the possibility of dawn. As I stood there, surrounded by the warmth and love of my family, I felt a sense of hope for the future. I had survived, I had learned, and I had grown. And that, in itself, was a victory worth celebrating.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Forgiveness

There were long periods of time where I didn’t speak to my mother. Therapy sessions with my mother were a battlefield of emotions. The sterile room, with its neutral tones and uncomfortable chairs, contrasted sharply with the raw, unfiltered pain that spilled out during our sessions. Each attempt to communicate felt like walking through a minefield, never knowing when an explosion of blame or denial would occur. But none of it worked for me. So I decided it was time to move on and let go of the past. I couldn’t go on like this and torture myself to the point of making myself sick. I tried to let all of it go, just to see what would happen.

I had to accept her for who she was and accept that she would not change. Instead of focusing on the way she made me feel after I saw her, I had to focus on my own life and all the positive things I had going on. Because I was never going to break the cycle by feeling angry all the time. This stops with me. And guess what? After months of forcing myself to accept what I could not change and instead focus on my life, the heartburn stopped, my clenched jaw relaxed, and I felt better.

I allowed myself room to be kind to myself. Acceptance does not come easy, and it’s something I need to work on daily. But over the years, I used up so much energy being mad at her. I truly believe I had to get to a place in my life where I didn’t want to feel that way any longer in order to let go of our past. This hasn’t been a flawless plan, and it’s not always easy, but it’s been a lot easier than getting dragged down every time I see her or think about her.

The night my mother died, I had a remarkably vivid dream of the two of us. In my dream, the front door of my mother's house loomed large, its once vibrant paint now peeling and faded, mirroring the decay within. I was knocking at her front door for a long time. My mother finally cracked the door open just enough to peer outside. She squinted at me like a mole struggling to see within the sobering sunlight. Upon my entrance, my mother walked slowly back to the couch, stoop-shouldered, head hanging in a quiet sadness and mumbling softly to herself. I watched her increasingly small frame as she sat down on the couch. Her fragile body was meek and helpless. Her gray skin looked washed out and blended into her dull gray lifeless hair. She wore a hair net with a few dangling bobby pins. Her pink terrycloth robe was showing bits from her breakfast that morning.

I opened the windows as I always did. I often wondered whether I was trying to let fresh air and sunlight in or trying to let the dark, malodorous funk of depression out. I started to feel the musty darkness wrap around my throat. I sat next to her on the couch wondering if she was still aware of my presence. I placed my hand on her back. Mom leaned her body my direction and placed her head on my chest. I felt all tension leave my body. We sat there together in the quiet as I stroked her hair. I woke up feeling more at peace than I can ever remember.

I didn’t always know Mom was a narcissist. I didn’t always know there was anything wrong with the way she behaved. I didn’t always know that she was not like everyone else. At the time I did not even know what narcissism was. I just thought I wasn't good enough to love. Until your mother tells you that you are, in fact, worth loving, you can only believe it intellectually. It is actually the most personal and soul validation there is. Without it, we are faking it.

My mother trained me to tell her that everything she did was right. And when I did not agree with her, I was a bad daughter who betrayed her. Mom would use guilt to keep me in line. The low self-esteem that plagued me throughout my lifetime has made relationships very challenging, especially that of a mother. I tried to keep quiet, to stuff all my feelings inside, to ignore the desperate cries of the little girl within me who had always needed her mother and never got what she needed. The effort was exhausting, a constant battle against a tide of unspoken pain and unfulfilled longing.

Mom was very charming. To her Beverly Hills friends, she was a perfect mother that had an imperfect child. If I spoke out against her, no one would believe me. This gutted any credibility I may have had within myself, confirming I was bad, defective. So I retreated into silence.

This silence, however, was not a refuge but a prison of my own making. I internalized my mother’s criticisms and allowed them to define my self-worth. Every time I looked in the mirror, I saw the reflection of someone who could never measure up, someone who was inherently flawed. This toxic relationship with myself became the lens through which I viewed all other relationships, perpetuating a cycle of self-doubt and insecurity. The external validation I sought so desperately could never fill the void left by my mother's rejection.

Over time, I began to understand that the journey to self-love is not a straight path. It involves acknowledging the pain and trauma of the past, but also recognizing that those experiences do not have to dictate the future. Very gradually, through self-reflection, I started to separate my own thoughts and feelings from the ones my mother had imposed on me. This process was neither easy nor quick.

One of the most pivotal moments in my journey was realizing that forgiveness does not mean condoning the hurtful actions of others. Forgiving my mother was more about releasing the hold her behavior had on my life than it was about excusing what she did. It was about reclaiming my power and deciding that I would no longer allow her to control my narrative. This shift in perspective allowed me to begin rebuilding my relationship with myself from a place of compassion and understanding.

Deciding to let go of the past was like tearing away a scab from a deep wound. It was painful, but I knew that keeping it covered would only prolong the healing. As I forced myself to accept what I could not change, I felt a gradual unburdening, like the loosening of chains that had bound me for far too long. I no longer felt the need to seek approval from those who could not give it. Instead, I surrounded myself with people who value and respect me for who I am. This transformation has been liberating. It taught me that the most important relationship we will ever have is the one with ourselves. When we learn to forgive and love ourselves, we create a solid foundation for all other relationships to succeed.

On behalf of the beautifully imperfect children of narcissists:

Give us the kind of love that frees us to express ourselves. Give us love that does not constrict, censor, and burden. Give us the kind of love that encourages us to let go.

EPILOGUE

I used to think survival meant running — outrunning the past, the failures, the people I couldn’t save, the parts of myself I wanted to bury.

But the truth is: survival is not escape.

It’s learning how to sit still with all the jagged, uncomfortable pieces of your story and breathe.

It’s learning that guilt will always tap at your shoulder — but you don’t have to turn around every time. It’s learning that grace is not something you earn; it’s something you extend, slowly, hesitantly, to yourself.

I still carry the absence of my daughters in my chest like a phantom limb. I still wake some nights to the sound of old ghosts whispering. I still walk through my memories as carefully as a woman walking barefoot over broken glass.

But I also laugh. I sing. I create. I love, deeply.

I am a mother.
I am a survivor.
I am a woman learning, even now, how to hold both guilt and grace in the same trembling hands.

And maybe — maybe — that is where the story begins again.